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As Waters Rise in Beaumont, Houston Starts to Head Home Floodwaters Inundate Beaumont as Houston Assesses Damage
(about 5 hours later)
Read the latest on the storm with Friday’s live updates on Harvey. HOUSTON — As Southeast Texas residents emerged by the thousands from shelters, motels and friends’ houses to return to flood-damaged homes, others remained in the grip of the crisis on Friday, cut off by still-rising floodwaters and living without running water for a second day.
HOUSTON — As Houston-area residents made their way back to their flooded homes, many of them unable to do more than survey the wreckage and retrieve a few precious items, people in Beaumont went without running water for a second day on Friday and record-breaking floodwaters there continued to rise in the aftermath of storm Harvey. In Houston and the surrounding area where the historic inundation from storm Harvey was mostly receding, people took to trucks and boats to get back into their neighborhoods, and many were appalled by what they found.
Across a 300-mile stretch of southeast Texas, millions of people still grappled with the devastating effects of a storm that shattered rainfall records for the continental United States — houses under water, flooded roads that cut off entire neighborhoods, a loss of power affecting thousands and fuel shortages — while millions of others began to assess the damage and figure out how to rebuild their lives. Local officials said that at least 46 deaths were related to or suspected to be related to the storm, a number they cautioned could still rise. Getting their first post-Harvey look at their northwest Houston home, where the water had risen to more than five feet inside, Larry and Suzette Cade stood at the front door, holding hands and crying.
“This is going to be a multiyear project for Texas to be able to dig out of this catastrophe,” Gov. Greg Abbott said Friday. “I just feel so sad and empty,” Mr. Cade said.
In most of Harris County, which includes Houston, the water was receding — though the county Flood Control District estimated on Thursday night that 136,000 structures were still flooded — and the number of people housed in the biggest shelter, the George R. Brown Convention Center, dropped to 8,000, from about 10,000 earlier in the week. To the east, parts of Beaumont and surrounding communities remained isolated, with roads impassable and the Neches River still swelling, rising eight feet higher than the previous record. It is not expected to crest until Saturday. The pumps providing fresh water to Beaumont, a city of almost 120,000, were knocked out by floodwaters on Thursday and remained shut down on Friday. Officials said they did not know when the system might be repaired.
But conditions remained critical farther east, especially in Beaumont, Port Arthur and other areas near the Louisiana border, and the American Red Cross said on Friday that the total number of people in shelters had climbed from the day before, to about 42,000. Late Friday, news footage showed fire engulfing part of a chemical plant northeast of Houston, sending thick black smoke high into the sky. The Arkema plant was the same facility where, on Thursday, a chemical storage trailer exploded, setting off a fire, after flooding knocked out the refrigeration system needed to keep the chemicals stable.
In and around Houston, people by the thousands took to trucks and boats to get a glimpse of the homes they had evacuated. Some stayed, others just picked up medications and family photos before heading back to shelters, and most simply could not bear to wait any longer to find out: How bad is it? The chief executive of Arkema’s American unit, Richard Rowe, had said at a news conference Friday morning that it was only a matter of time before more of the nine trailers holding the chemicals exploded. He described the chemicals as irritants to the lungs, eyes and possibly skin, but it was not clear how much of a health threat the new release posed. Arkema officials could not be immediately reached on Friday night.
On Thursday, Larry and Suzette Cade, getting their first post-Harvey glimpse of their northwest Houston home, found that their blue car had floated about 20 feet from where they had parked it, and rested against a tree. Ten massive logs that the couple had never seen before were scattered on one side of their lawn. There was no trace of the mailbox. A 300-mile swath of Texas was a patchwork of places where people still grappled with the devastating aftermath of a storm that shattered rainfall records for the continental United States, and others where the crisis had abated enough for residents to begin to assess the damage and figure out how to rebuild their lives.
The Cades have owned their brick house for a quarter century, yet it felt unfamiliar. As Mr. Cade tried to pry open the swollen front door, Ms. Cade peeked through the window of the family room. Even through a film of dirt, she could see everything was upended. The water had reached well over five feet in the house. Jana Swearingen had to hitch three separate boat rides, crossing from one patch of dry land to the next, to get to her job as a nurse at Christus Southeast Texas St. Elizabeth Hospital in Beaumont, from her home in Lumberton, just north of the city. She said the current was so strong in the bayou that it looked like white water rapids.
They stood at their front door holding hands — and crying. Her heroes? “Just good old boys from around here,” she said, piloting their own boats and taking people to safety.
“I just feel so sad and empty,” Mr. Cade, 63, said, standing in the driveway. Even as the population of emergency shelters in Houston began to fall, it rose statewide, reaching more than 42,000 on Friday, with 3,000 more Texans in shelters in Louisiana, Gov. Greg Abbott said. He said 440,000 Texans had applied for aid from the Federal Emergency Management Agency.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” Ms. Cade, 62, softly repeated as she again walked the perimeter of the house. “This is overwhelming. Everything is thrown everywhere.” “This is going to be a multiyear project for Texas to be able to dig out of this catastrophe,” he said.
It was uncertain how many of this region’s residents have tried to return home since the storm — or how many no longer had homes they could return to. Local officials said that at least 46 deaths were related to or suspected to be related to the storm, a number they cautioned could rise.
“I do want people to exercise caution if they are leaving the shelters and returning home,” Mayor Sylvester Turner said late Thursday, “or if they sought lodging someplace else and are returning home. They just need to be extra careful when they are returning.” President Trump will ask Congress to approve $5.9 billion for disaster relief in the coming days, and $6 billion more by the end of the month, White House officials said. He will travel to Texas and Louisiana on Saturday, his second trip to the affected region this week, to review recovery efforts.
The process of going home had its own complications, given all that this city has been through. Local and state authorities issued an array of cautions: Do not eat anything that had come into contact with floodwaters; check for wildlife, including snakes; and visit homes in daylight. In Harris County, which includes Houston, the county Flood Control District estimated that 136,000 structures were flooded, but the water was receding in most places. People were eager to return home to pick up medications and family photos, to see if they could move back in, and mostly to answer the question that had gnawed at them for days: How bad is it?
The Cades found that the brick house they have owned for a quarter century seemed strangely unfamiliar. Their blue car had floated about 20 feet from where they had parked it and rested against a tree, 10 logs were scattered on one side of their lawn, and there was no trace of the mailbox.
As Mr. Cade, 63, tried without success to pry open the swollen front door, Ms. Cade, 62, peeked through the family room window, and saw how high the water had climbed, and that everything inside was upended.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” Ms. Cade said softly as she again walked the perimeter of the house. “This is overwhelming. Everything is thrown everywhere.”
The flower pots she had collected for years were smashed or vanished, the fence had collapsed in a messy heap, the garage door was gone, and fish had found their way into the swimming pool.
“Where’s our deck?” she wondered aloud.
It was uncertain how many of this region’s residents have tried to return home since the storm — or how many no longer had intact homes they could return to. Local governments were just beginning the work of searching for the missing, and clearing roads of mud, uprooted trees and ruined cars.
With several oil refineries shut down, Texas saw scattered fuel shortages, but the governor said the state had arranged for additional supplies to be brought in from Oklahoma and Louisiana.
Flooding remained a problem for thousands of people who live just east of two overwhelmed flood control basins, the Addicks and Barker reservoirs at the western edge of Houston, and Mayor Sylvester Turner made a “strong request” that residents not return if there was water in their homes.
Speaking at a news conference, Mr. Turner said the flooded homes were unsafe and were “creating an increasing strain on our first responders.” As the Army Corps of Engineers releases water from the reservoirs into the Buffalo Bayou, he said, the houses in that area will remain waterlogged for 10 to 15 days.
Even where the water had receded, homecoming had complications. The authorities issued an array of cautions: Do not eat anything that had come into contact with floodwaters; wash hands after touching the water; check for wildlife, including snakes; and visit homes in daylight.
And they have been passing around advice for disinfecting soaked furniture: one cup of bleach to five gallons of water.And they have been passing around advice for disinfecting soaked furniture: one cup of bleach to five gallons of water.
“It’s dirty water,” said Dr. David E. Persse, the public health authority for the City of Houston. When Tequoya Stewart-Miller, 30, first returned to the peach-colored two-story house near downtown that she shares with her grandmother, her strongest impression was the smell of the place: “mildew and death.”
State Senator John Whitmire, who represents part of Houston, said residents were eager to see their homes.
“Every human emotion ever found in a society is being experienced,” Mr. Whitmire said. “They realize how lucky they are to be alive, in many instances. You’ve got to have priorities: Their priority was one of survival and breathing. Now they want to get back to normal as much as possible.”
Some went home and moved back in. Others made calls to contractors and landlords, planning repairs. Still others carried out wedding photographs or clothes, then headed back to shelters or the homes of relatives for what may be months. In many cases, the homes are not livable.
“We could only go in and get some clothing and food,” said Marisela Arevalo, 25, who returned to her house in northeast Houston, but only briefly.
Standing on a flooded highway not far from her home, Ms. Arevalo said the water line in the house came up to her knees.
Tequoya Stewart-Miller, 30, saw her home for the first time since the flood on Thursday, rolling up to the peach-colored two-story house that she shares with her grandmother and other relatives in the Cypress Creek neighborhood, northwest of downtown.
The water had inundated the first story. Her strongest memory of the visit, she said, was the smell of the place: “mildew and death.”
“It was devastating,” she said. “Just devastating.”“It was devastating,” she said. “Just devastating.”
The house where the family gathered for Friday night card games and Sunday soul food dinners was so destroyed she dared not enter.The house where the family gathered for Friday night card games and Sunday soul food dinners was so destroyed she dared not enter.
“We had the kids around, we didn’t want them to see,” she said. “That’s traumatizing, to see all they used to have.”“We had the kids around, we didn’t want them to see,” she said. “That’s traumatizing, to see all they used to have.”
Back at Larry and Suzette Cade’s house, the couple found their backyard looking as though it had been turned upside down. Some people were able to move back to their homes and start calling contractors and planning repairs. Others, finding that their homes were not livable, grabbed some things and headed back to shelters or relatives’ homes, knowing that it might be months before they can move back in.
The flower pots Ms. Cade had collected over 15 years were smashed and scattered across the backyard. Others had vanished. The fence had fallen in a messy heap. The garage door, gone. Fish had found their way into the swimming pool. For Mr. Cade, one of the greatest losses is not financial.
“Where’s our deck?” Mrs. Cade wondered aloud. Before he and his wife left on Sunday to stay at a hotel, he placed a photo of his mother atop a seven-foot shelf. The picture, more than 50 years old, is so treasured that he can recall it with precise detail: he is a toddler wearing black shorts, suspenders and white, hard-bottom, high-top shoes; his mother wears a floral dress and holds his hand as they stand in Houston’s Fifth Ward.
Mr. Cade whirled around and looked at a muddy patch of earth. “As soon as I walked to the door this morning, I thought about my mom,” he said. “That photo,” he said, his voice thinned by tears. But the tumbled furniture the Cades could see through their windows left little hope that it had survived. He said, “I thought the shelf was high enough.”
“Gone too,” he said, shoulders sinking.
Before they left the house on Sunday afternoon to stay at a hotel with five of their 22 grandchildren, Mr. Cade placed a photo of his mother on the top of a seven-foot shelf. The photo, more than 50 years old, is so treasured that Mr. Cade can recall it with precise detail: he is a toddler wearing black shorts, suspenders and white, hard-bottom, high-top shoes; his mother wears a blue floral dress and holds his hand as they stand in Houston’s Fifth Ward.
“As soon as I walked to the door this morning, I thought about my mom,” he said. “That photo,” he said, his voice thinned by tears. “I thought the shelf was high enough.” The jumble of furniture that the Cades could see through their windows left little hope.
They said they had weathered storms before in this neighborhood northwest of downtown, Bammel Forest, but nothing like Harvey.
“I have seen the really bad stuff on television,” said Mr. Cade, whose family owns a transportation business. “But actually experience it? No. Never.”
Now, the Cades have to face what’s inside. The door is still swollen shut.