Something to Hold Onto

Chrissie Anderson Peters

I was about three yeas old when a flash flood took out the building in our backyard in Tazewell, Virginia, where I played with my baby dolls and many of my stuffed animals, including my favorite stuffed animal, a little white dog in a red-and-white-striped sleep cap and pajamas ensemble that I named “Dodo,” because I couldn’t say “Toto” correctly from The Wizard of Oz. Dodo usually came inside with me each night, but I’d forgotten him outside when the rains started pouring and Mamaw Little made me come inside because the creek beside the house and little building started rising so quickly. At one point during the night, I remember either her or my mom opening the front door of the trailer just a little and seeing water rushing past in the light from the front of the living room. They held me back from the door, saying things like, “Lord’a mercy, don’t let her get too close! If she fell in, we’d never find her again!”

When we began our own recovery efforts the next day or day after, I remember they wouldn’t let me go near the building, which had come to rest on I-frame top, dragged off the cinder blocks that secured it to the ground. Everything my Papaw Little brought out of it was caked in mud and soaked, with a musty, mildewy smell setting in. He declared everything in the building a loss, the canned goods Mamaw, my aunts, and my mom had put up, strewn all over in broken mason jars now. My toys and dolls were best thrown away, Papaw told me. The gravity of that statement didn’t hit me fully until I spied Dodo at the edge of the yard and ran to him. The plush foam inside him smelled soured, and his outfit was discolored, the red bleeding onto the white. Mud stained his white fur and one of his black glass eyes had popped loose and fallen off. My best friend had been damaged beyond repair. Papaw tugged him from my arms and declared, “Shoo, he’s nasty, Chrissle! We have to throw him away. He’s no good now.”

Tears streamed down my face, and I cried as Papaw threw him on a pile with other garbage. All I could think was, “Who will take care of Dodo? Who will watch out for him? Who will read him stories at bedtime? And who will I hold onto while I sleep?”

When the flood waters of July 2022 rose in Hindman, Kentucky, I was in Preece, the dormitory sitting at the very top of the hill on the Hindman campus. Even though I was safe there from the flood, I felt absolutely useless in assisting anyone; due to health reasons, I was trapped on the hill, unable to get back up if I walked down to investigate or to try to help anyone below. I monitored the situation from my phone the best I could and offered up snacks to anyone else in Preece who might want or need them. That was the extent of what I could do. I beat myself up for not being more ambulatory the whole ride home, and longer, carrying with me the horrific images of vehicles swept away, homes overtaken, buildings submerged, and the unshakeable feeling that, even though I didn’t reside in that area, my world, too, had been changed. I’ve been blessed to be a part of the Appalachian Writers’ Workshop on and off since about 2009 and have referred to Hindman as “The Home of My Heart” for all the years since then. Seeing firsthand the damage sustained as I drove home to Bristol, Tennessee, that morning overwhelmed me. I pulled over more than once to let the grief wash over me, as well as my own feelings of inadequacy for not being able to do more to help others before I loaded up my SUV and left.

When I got home, I was determined to make up for what I couldn’t do that morning. I immediately sent out messages via Facebook, email, and text – help was needed and that meant supplies, finances, and actual volunteerism. I tried to connect anyone and everyone who could and would donate to the appropriate staff at Hindman Settlement School (which typically meant calling on Melissa Helton, as she coordinated almost all efforts initially, or knew who should be contacted). People close to me knew what a difference Hindman had made in my life over the years I’d attended the Appalachian Writers’ Workshop. They knew it was a second home to me. Most of my friends and family asked how they could help; if nothing else, they spread the message, getting the word out about what was needed, when, and where.

I coordinated several trips to the Settlement School with various donations. Sometimes food items, sometimes tools, sometimes personal hygiene items, sometimes money. I even brought a load of donated items from the participants of the Table Rock Writers Workshop at the end of August, thanks to the generosity of the writers and staff members there, driving from Little Switzerland, North Carolina to Hindman, Kentucky, and back to Bristol, Tennessee, when I was supposed to be wearing an orthotic boot on my driving foot full-time. I reasoned that my pain and temporary inconvenience paled beside that of the people I was taking supplies for, though, and was thankful for the help in unloading my SUV each and every trip I made.

The set-up in The Great Hall at Hindman reminded me of the Christmas Store operated by Dollar General when I had volunteered with the Dollywood Foundation after the wildfires in Gatlinburg in 2016. Items were grouped to mimic a shopping experience. People were encouraged to grab a plastic tote or bags when they entered and to take what they needed. No explanations necessary, no questions asked. My first two trips, I watched as little children clung to the adults who took them there, not just shy, but frightened. But didn’t they have every right to be? Just like their adult counterparts, they, too, had lost everything they had. I could remember just a little of that feeling from the flood when I was child, but all I’d lost back then were some toys I thought the world of.

I returned home after that particular trip and stood in my living room, looking at the far wall. Among other pastimes, I sold Scentsy, smell-good products for homes. There wasn’t much call for most of our products in Eastern Kentucky. Most people were still without electricity, if they even had someplace to live. What good was a wax warmer when what you really needed was a home? But stacked against my living room wall were about fifty Scentsy Buddies, stuffed animals that could be used with or without a Scent Pak in the back of the stuffed animal. Were they emergency items? No. Were they necessities? No. But they reminded me of that flood when I was a little girl growing up in Tazewell, Virginia.

I debated whether or not I should even take these Scentsy Buddies to Hindman, because, in light of what was needed, they did seem frivolous. But I kept remembering what I felt like as a child and what many of these children must be feeling with no toys, nothing to play with, no games. I couldn’t fathom how scary life must be for them. As a former children’s librarian and youth services advocate, I decided to take some of the Buddies on my next trip. If they were frivolous and not needed, then I’d just bring them home. My hope, though, was that at least some of them would find new owners who would take them from the Settlement School after my visit.

My next trip to Hindman included the usual food and hygiene products, as well as some heavy-duty tarp-like “big blue Ikea bags,” which were an instant hit with folks coming in. And about twenty Scentsy Buddies with Scent Paks. Some were regular Buddies, meaning they were not licensed merchandise. The ones that were licensed were mainly Disney, but some were also Marvel. I wasn’t sure how – or if – any of them would go over. As I said, I realized many of these folks had lost everything and stuffed animals were not at the top of anyone’s priorities.

I had time that afternoon to hang around a little while and try to help, to talk to Melissa and her crew, to see what the next steps would be in recovery efforts, what would be needed, and when. I watched with trepidation as the first parents approached the boxes holding the stuffed animals and walked by them. It wasn’t obvious what they were. Maybe I needed to introduce them. But I didn’t want to be intrusive. I deliberated back and forth to myself as the parents and child walked up and down the rows of goods picking out what they needed. Then I walked towards the Buddies and picked one up randomly, approaching the family. “Hi, my name is Chrissie. I brought some friends today and I wondered if you might want to take one home with you.” I pulled The Beast from Beauty and the Beast from its cardboard box and the little boy’s eyes lit up. He looked at his mother, then at me, then back to his mother imploringly.

She smiled a tired smile. “You can have it, if you want it,” she told him.

“There are others over here, if there’s a different one you’d like better –” I started.

He shook his head “no” and reached for The Beast. “Thank you,” he whispered, his little fingers brushing through the stuffed animal’s mane and beard.

I told him he was welcome, and I hoped The Beast would be his friend for a long, long time. Just then, I spied two other kids in the same vicinity, walking past the closed-up cardboard boxes. So, I walked over and started talking to them. One of them chose Black Panther and the other one chose Spiderman. They left hugging their new friends close to them. Another child saw them get their Buddies, so he knew what was in the boxes and chose his on his own. Then two teenaged girls came in and asked if they could get Buddies, too. I said, “Absolutely.” Before I left a couple hours later, all the Buddies were gone. I told Melissa, if it was okay, I’d bring more the next time I came over. I drove home with my heart pounding. My gut instincts had been correct. Maybe there was a connection between that memory of losing Dodo and seeing all those Buddies I had stockpiled in my living room – for reasons I didn’t know I would need them at the time I’d been buying them and stacking them in the living room. Yes, the children needed all the things their families needed in terms of supplies and food, etc., but they needed extra things, too. The need for something to hold onto is timeless, I guess.