Were You Here In 22 Part 2
Three weeks behind us and gas bottles in trees, cars on roofs, and huge army trucks have become the norm. There is always a flurry of activity. The incessant beep of a truck down the road creates its industrial snail trail as it moves through the piles of memories outside homes. Making its way to the next sad story, street by street.
It is a step forward in the clean-up, but so painful as well.
You see It’s not rubbish.
We don’t want to throw it away.
The yes or no pile. is it even a question!?
Having to decide in the mud, in your lounge room, amongst kind strangers if something that was sitting happily on a windowsill is now to be “thrown” or is it heading to the salvage pile for its 11th-hour reprieve.
I understand it’s an important part of the process. But having to say goodbye to your loved and cherished memories without even an eye gazing across them one last time is truly heartbreaking.
There are so many sad and terrifying stories. Some people are ready to share in the hope others may heal with them. Others are angry that they had to endure the horror and they too have a “story” that they aren’t quite ready to share.
Of course, politics will always give leverage to the wanna Be’s and the have nots.
“They did, they didn’t They are, they aren’t.” Regardless of the colour of your shirt collar or the way you swing, The Northern Rivers is hurting, and we need help. We will need money to be innovative and inviting. An area of Australia that we Lismorites know is beautiful. But through smart spending and marketing, let’s invite our fellow Aussie to lay their eyes on our beautiful region.
I feel Like lady Lismore is currently an annoyed muddy dog, who just needs a good ol shake to get rid of the grey hue on her trees, so we can enjoy her gorgeous pallet of rainforest greens.
My own three-week post-flood “journey” has been many things.
Exhausting, self-reflective, affirming, and unfortunately health-compromising.
For the first few days, we were all running on adrenalin. That constant state of urgency was written on everyone’s face. We all had the same zombie look. Get up at sunrise. Go to bed well past sunset.
After a week of floodwaters receding and belongings being removed, the mould starts to grow. It is the perfect environment. Warm, wet, and dark. No electricity. When we think about mould in our homes we jokingly think about poor housekeeping. This is different it covers every surface. You can smell it. It takes your breath away when you are near it. But like the huge piles of putrid rubbish, after a while, you don’t notice it. And there lies the problem.
The last time I was sick was 5 years ago in 2017. The last flood. Mould-induced bronchitis. A sinus infection and a throat that is red and irritated.
The flood has taken my business away. And it seems that even my health and wellness aren’t safe. The irony. I exercise to keep myself fit and well. But the flood has taken the very thing I would turn to ensure both mental and physical strength remained intact.
Strong antibiotics, rest, and a tonne of patience, and I should be fine.
I have had the food bank at the studio for two and a half weeks and I am thinking If pt doesn’t
pan out, a courier service could be good. I could call myself “The Lady and her trolley” In
hindsight That three-wheeler was the best pre-flood purchase I ever bought.
I coordinated hundreds of hampers, water, good ol Aussie wheat bix, and toiletries.
I have met so many amazing caring and giving people. And the one thing that truly stands out is the ones who have the least are the ones who ask for the least.
I have had jams and chutneys dropped back in return for the empty tray of plums. The hands of kindness are so warm and safe. Speaking to strangers in Lismore just feels right it is who we are. I have hugged new friends and shared tears with strangers.
You don’t even need to explain. Lady Lismore’s just knows.
Three weeks behind us and gas bottles in trees, cars on roofs, and huge army trucks have become the norm. There is always a flurry of activity. The incessant beep of a truck down the road creates its industrial snail trail as it moves through the piles of memories outside homes. Making its way to the next sad story, street by street.
It is a step forward in the clean-up, but so painful as well.
You see It’s not rubbish.
We don’t want to throw it away.
The yes or no pile. is it even a question!?
Having to decide in the mud, in your lounge room, amongst kind strangers if something that was sitting happily on a windowsill is now to be “thrown” or is it heading to the salvage pile for its 11th-hour reprieve.
I understand it’s an important part of the process. But having to say goodbye to your loved and cherished memories without even an eye gazing across them one last time is truly heartbreaking.
There are so many sad and terrifying stories. Some people are ready to share in the hope others may heal with them. Others are angry that they had to endure the horror and they too have a “story” that they aren’t quite ready to share.
Of course, politics will always give leverage to the wanna Be’s and the have nots.
“They did, they didn’t They are, they aren’t.” Regardless of the colour of your shirt collar or the way you swing, The Northern Rivers is hurting, and we need help. We will need money to be innovative and inviting. An area of Australia that we Lismorites know is beautiful. But through smart spending and marketing, let’s invite our fellow Aussie to lay their eyes on our beautiful region.
I feel Like lady Lismore is currently an annoyed muddy dog, who just needs a good ol shake to get rid of the grey hue on her trees, so we can enjoy her gorgeous pallet of rainforest greens.
My own three-week post-flood “journey” has been many things.
Exhausting, self-reflective, affirming, and unfortunately health-compromising.
For the first few days, we were all running on adrenalin. That constant state of urgency was written on everyone’s face. We all had the same zombie look. Get up at sunrise. Go to bed well past sunset.
After a week of floodwaters receding and belongings being removed, the mould starts to grow. It is the perfect environment. Warm, wet, and dark. No electricity. When we think about mould in our homes we jokingly think about poor housekeeping. This is different it covers every surface. You can smell it. It takes your breath away when you are near it. But like the huge piles of putrid rubbish, after a while, you don’t notice it. And there lies the problem.
The last time I was sick was 5 years ago in 2017. The last flood. Mould-induced bronchitis. A sinus infection and a throat that is red and irritated.
The flood has taken my business away. And it seems that even my health and wellness aren’t safe. The irony. I exercise to keep myself fit and well. But the flood has taken the very thing I would turn to ensure both mental and physical strength remained intact.
Strong antibiotics, rest, and a tonne of patients and I should be fine.
I have had the food bank at the studio for two and a half weeks and I am thinking If pt doesn’t
pan out, a courier service could be good. I could call myself “The Lady and her trolley” In
hindsight That three-wheeler was the best pre-flood purchase I ever bought.
I coordinated hundreds of hampers, water, good ol Aussie wheat bix, and toiletries.
I have met so many amazing caring and giving people. And the one thing that truly stands out is the ones who have the least are the ones who ask for the least.
I have had jams and chutneys dropped back in return for the empty tray of plums. The hands of kindness are so warm and safe. Speaking to strangers in Lismore just feels right it is who we are. I have hugged new friends and shared tears with strangers.
You don’t even need to explain. Lady Lismore’s just knows.
