MONDAY, September 12, 1988 was turning out to be like any other heavily overcast day in Hampshire, a community in the rural hills of North East St Catherine. Only if the weatherman’s forecast of a severe storm system called Gilbert had not turned out to be true.
By the time it touched 10:00 am, the rain was so intense… more like piercing the structure of our small, concrete house that overlooked most of the other dwellings in the heavily vegetated community.None of us knew what to expect from Gilbert. After all, my mother, the only parent present at the time, had not “really” experienced a hurricane. Born in 1950, she was only a year old when the dangerous Hurricane Charlie swept across the island in August 1951, leaving death and destruction in its wake. Maybe that’s why we didn’t budge.There we were — my mom, all seven us (three girls and four boys), and my older sister’s boyfriend; who was visiting for the first time, and what a welcome he got!Our bellies packed with fried dumplings and steamed cabbage and looking forward to our next meal of curried chicken, which was already seasoned and left to marinate.We did not get much time to think about our next meal. Gilbert had other plans. The winds began and soon became more intense.Signs of worry began to show on my mother’s face. Gilbert’s winds got stronger. The zinc sheets on the roof began to creak, and soon water began streaming through the sheets of solitex — a synthetic material used in ceilings.Gilbert’s winds, like a skilled carpenter, had begun to unfasten the zinc roof sheet by sheet, forcing us to run from room to room seeking shelter from the water.It wasn’t long before we ran out of options. There was no hiding place. We had to take the soaking.Tears began streaming down my mother’s face. Reality had set in.The roof on the grille-less verandah was spared, but one would have to be highly skilled to dodge the green pears flying like missiles from a nearby tree.Having no option, we waited for Gilbert’s winds to “die”, all the while getting updates from our small radio wrapped in a sheet.When the coast was clear, literally, and we emerged from our roofless house, the destruction was evident. Gilbert also proved to be a skilled landscaper. Huge trees that were marked to survive a lifetime were uprooted. We had a panoramic view of the community; in people’s backyards that were once hidden from the public glare. Privacy was the least on anyone’s mind.Night was drawing nigh and we had to seek shelter. And that shelter was nowhere in our vicinity as all our neighbours had suffered similar ordeals.What made it worse, we had no road, no yard. Just one massive landslide, a disadvantage of living on a hillside.To “escape”, we had to jump from our verandah metres below in a mud heap. My older sister got stuck and had to be rocked out by her boyfriend. But, we could not laugh, at least not then, as we were too frightened, perhaps.With our only possessions in the form of a rust comforter and some candles, we all began to run. We asked where were we heading, my mother’s reply “jus’ run!”When we reach the first intersection, we all looked at her. She stood, tears still streaming down her face. She was at a loss for words. We thought about our aunt about a mile away, but were soon informed that she, too, had lost her roof, evidenced by the fact that her husband was seen standing outside with a mattress on his head.Then being the quick thinker she is, my mother gave my brothers each a candle and ordered them to “find somewhere to sleep”.My brothers did not resist. They had always been this obedient. They went south, we went east and ended up at the door of a woman, Ms Gray. We banged on the door, she allowed us in.All soaked, we soon found out that we were about the sixth family at this one house. We made ourselves comfortable on the floor in a corner of the living room. No one could sleep. We just wanted to see daylight… too worried where the boys were.When daylight finally came, we couldn’t wait to go back “home”.Destruction was all around. In the midst of all the rubble was a shed in which our goat Muriel was housed. She was untouched, eating pimento leaves right through the storm.One thing that brought a smile to my face was to be “re-united” with my brothers — one of whom was wearing a dress, the only dry piece of clothes he could find. They had found shelter in a church building.Here, the planning began to repair our roof. But first, we would have to find the zinc sheets — some blown as far as half-mile away.Another task, was to get my sister’s boyfriend, an only child, out of the community and back to his mother in Kingston. He had been stuck in a women’s pink-and-black striped pyjama for two days, walking around with his clothes in a plastic bag to keep them dry. A solution was found. My mother begged a ride on a front-end loader to “a spot where he can get a bus”. I guess that would be Bog Walk, several miles away.The three days that followed were dedicated to clean the silt from the house, clear the landslides and help our father, who had by then ‘returned’ to repair the roof . At nights we headed in different directions to sleep.Wandering sheep we were.I could not attend school for nearly two months. And electricity was only restored in the area a week before Christmas.Oh how we wished for some ‘protein’ other than the tinned foods that became a staple on our plates.Looking back, we thought, why didn’t my mom seek shelter in our shop, which was just several chains from where we lived?Only she can explain.Gilbert, you were one wild soul.HOUSE RULES
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A taste of homelessness
