The boy is electric with energy.
“Did you buy more ice cream?” he asks.
“I did buy more ice cream,” Tangie Morgan replies.
She’s the mayor of Saluda, North Carolina, pop. 642, and one of the many small mountain towns reeling from the effects of Hurricane Helene — a category 4 hurricane that swept through landlocked parts of the state on Friday, Sept. 27, leaving at least 230 people dead, dozens still missing and nearly a million people without power.
Morgan is revered by kids as the best ice cream scooper in town because, in addition to her mayoral duties, she runs M.A. Pace General Store, open since 1899 and, most importantly to this little boy, where folks can get a generous cone of Blue Bell ice cream.
“Yea!” he shouts, arms shooting into the air in exclamation.
“Go get your mom,” Morgan tells him.
That Morgan has ice cream available is a small miracle. A week earlier, Hurricane Helene came through this town with a fierce wind that toppled powerlines and trees, and dropped almost 15 inches of rain over three days. It swelled the creeks and rivers that run through the coves. (In other parts of Appalachia, they call these valleys hollers). And those rivers unleashed a mighty flood that destroyed homes and took lives.
When water and power returned to downtown Saluda, restaurants and businesses hustled to get inspected, to get food back in stock, and to serve their community.
It’s mid-afternoon on a warm October Saturday. The leaves are just starting to change colors. Inside M.A. Pace’s grocery store, one of the oldest general stores in North Carolina, it could be any other Saturday in the fall.
A tinny old radio plays bluegrass in the background. The smell of the oiled wood rises from floors that creak like old bones – like they always have. Necessities and nostalgia converge here: vintage signs and historic photos, axes and fresh tomatoes, a cooler in the back with grape Nehi and Cheerwine, shelves filled with apple butter and chow-chow.
It all feels normal. Except for the dust on the street, the helicopters flying back and forth, and the stories in this place. Morgan has heard many stories in the past week.
She has seen and heard things that she never wanted to hear. Stories about people thinking they were safe and then were washed away in a raging torrent. And from a woman who walked up to her in the post office, saying she lost her home and didn’t know what to do next.
Some of the most serious destruction around here was down in Green River Cove, a place you get to by driving down dozens of nausea-inducing switchbacks. The river that flows through the cove has become a destination for kayakers – appreciated, respected and feared. The rain that fell in this area barrelled down the mountain like a runaway train, ripping through the switchbacks and cutting off some residents from neighbors and friends.
When it reached the river, Helene’s remaining rage roared through the cove. As of Saturday, Morgan told me, 37 homes were either wiped off the earth or left uninhabitable.
“It’s hard for me to even fathom that many houses being gone, let alone the whole road being gone,” Morgan says. “Homes just totally destroyed. And someone passing away. And the uncertainty of people right now not knowing: Is someone going to help them? It’s heartbreaking.”
Most of the people in the cove have been evacuated. One of Morgan’s friends was airlifted out in a helicopter with nothing but her precious life. Two other people chose to remain there, and folks are bringing them supplies.
Surrounded by trauma, this might sound odd, but Morgan tells me that she lives in “the best part of the world.”
She’s not wrong. The air smells sweet here, and the tree-sized rhododendrons covering the hills are shocks of deep green. The town is perched at 2,179 feet above sea level, at the top of what’s called the Saluda Grade, a stretch of old railroad track that, when it was used, was the steepest grade east of the Mississippi. A doctor who believed there was something special about the air here set up a sanitarium for children and infants in the early 1900s.
I was born and raised in South Carolina, but in many ways my heart has always been in Saluda. As a boy, I accompanied my aunt while on her mail route, driving down the Green River Cove switchbacks stopping to talk to folks along the way, some who rarely left that paradise. In college, I spent summers and breaks working in town and living in my aunt’s cabin. Years later I got married here and the day after, sat in Cove Creek for hours with my friends, a creek that rose like all the others last week.
But when Morgan says this place is exceptional, she is talking about the residents.
“I think the people are what make it a special place,” Morgan says. “They’ve opened their doors up. They’ve opened their homes up. I think we’re going to be okay.”
She pauses as she begins to choke up. “I’m getting chill bumps now.”
Morgan says this disaster has brought people together – people who might not have known each other before.
Down Main Street from Pace’s store, there are two gathering points. One is at Green River Adventures, a business that usually runs whitewater rafting and rock climbing excursions down in the cove. When the storm hit, Saluda’s food pantry flooded. So Green River Adventures opened its doors and gave the pantry a temporary home. Now, a continuous stream of people drop off donations – water, food, clothing – and people pick up what they need to get by.
Across the street from Green River Adventures at Looking Glass Realty, my good friend Amy Wood opened up her office to the community. They have snacks, water and coffee. But most importantly right now, they have power and a Starlink hookup so folks can connect to the internet.
For some, it’s their only connection to the world beyond Saluda.
People gather around the front and sides of the building seated on the ground or in a few plastic Adirondack chairs, checking their phones or working on laptops. On Friday, Jesse Thomas offered massages and Ana Laporte was cutting hair for free. And a sign board allowed folks to list needs and solicit help from others.
Amy and a posse of volunteers are publishing a newsletter called “Neighbor to Neighbor” that they send out via email and distribute as flyers around town. The newsletters list free yoga classes, meals, counseling sessions and dozens of other resources.
It’s a one-page connection to something that feels normal at a time when nothing seems normal.
Last Friday night, Abe Thomas made pizzas at the Wildflour Bakery for anyone who wanted them. Donations were accepted but not required. Folks gathered, hugged each other, bought beers from the store next door, and sat in comfort with each other for hours, going over and over their stories.
Countywide recovery efforts are being centralized at the Tryon International Equestrian Center, a large facility just down the mountain with enough room to work as a staging area. The initial sprint to survival is becoming a marathon to recovery.
Morgan says she can see the hurt in people’s faces and wishes she could help them all. But for now, she is focused on what’s in front of her, scooping up ice cream for sure, but also, by meeting with local officials, the Federal Emergency Management Agency and with individual constituents who come find her in the store.
“There’s no way of preparing, but we have the best resources within so many miles of us,” she said, pointing to Saluda Fire and Rescue, to the maintenance workers who helped clear streets, to the National Guard who came in to help, and to so many others she could name. So many people have helped.
A woman interrupts us, a young girl trailing behind. She wants to pay for a lollipop.
And then another woman pops in with a question. “Coon Dog Day?”
“We’re having it,” Morgan replies defiantly. Coon Dog Day is an arts, crafts, music extravaganza that includes a AKC-sanctioned dog show and treeing contest. In the evening, there’s square dancing and shagging (the state dance of South Carolina) on Main Street. The event has been around since 1963.
“We’re doing it. We’re having Coon Dog Day. We are doing it!”
It could be any other fall day, except for the harrowing stories and the floodline that rises 7 feet up the kudzu hanging off trees. It might be any other fall day, except for the washed out mountainsides along Highway 176 and Pearson’s Falls Road, a mess of asphalt, mud and trees. Any other fall day, except for the dozens and dozens of powerline trucks driving in a caravan into western North Carolina, the pickups hauling water, and the communities organizing to support each other.
When I first walked into Pace’s Store, Mayor Morgan was talking with a woman who said we’re a country that loves each other even if half of us don’t agree with the other half.
That is self-evident here in these mountains and coves – a place where a small-town mayor can coordinate with FEMA and the power companies while dishing up ice cream to children in need of comfort after the storm of a lifetime.
If you would like to support folks in Saluda and Polk County, you can donate to the Polk County Community Foundation’s Emergency Relief and Rebuilding Fund.
Jack Shuler writes for TheReportingProject.org, the nonprofit news organization of Denison University’s Journalism program, which is supported by generous donations from readers. Sign up for The Reporting Project newsletter here.