What Day (Or Week) Is It?

Right now, all sense of time has vanished—I feel torn between two worlds, with one foot reaching forward into the future and the other somewhere in the past. The hurricane feels like it struck both yesterday and two months ago, if that makes sense. I thought I received water just yesterday, but it’s already been a week. And my last shower, I guessed was a week ago, but it was only five days. “Only” five days—funny how that sounds.

I’ve been going 7 to 8 days between showers, but right now, the discomfort is catching up to me, and not being able to cleanse properly is taking a toll.

On top of this, I'm pulled in another direction as I return to work, yet still feel a pull toward the ongoing relief efforts. There’s a deep need in the community, and I want to be a part of that. But we also have responsibilities—bosses, clients, and the need for familiar routines, even as everything changes. Talking to my friend Alex, I said that, moving forward, we’d probably refer to events as “pre-Helene” and “post-Helene.”

The Friday before last, I met with my team at Echo Mountain to discuss reopening the studio. We knew scheduling sessions for the following week would be tough given the short notice, but we wanted to take a step forward. I suggested hosting jam sessions for local musicians, knowing that with three weeks of canceled gigs, many hadn’t played in a while. The team was fully on board, and it felt like a meaningful way to help our community while finding a way forward.

On Monday, Charlie created a signup form within minutes so we could post it right away. By the next day, we had 50 musicians signed up. The Echo Mountain crew organized a call to review availability and start building out the sessions. We kicked off with drums and bass to establish a rhythm section and layered in other musicians based on their schedules and instruments. After a few technical snags with the platform, by Tuesday at 4:30, we had all 50 musicians scheduled across 12 sessions over three days, with everyone getting a chance to play. Some of these musicians we know, but there was many we did not know.

I was on a tight deadline to send those emails before leaving for Charlotte, where I had an appointment for my Global Entry interview. It had taken two months to get, and though I wanted to cancel, Charlie urged me to go. Since we’re heading on our non-honeymoon soon, he didn’t want to end up waiting for me in the customs line when we return.

Again, I felt that pull in two directions. A candlelight vigil was scheduled for Tuesday night. Initially, I wasn’t sure I wanted to join in the collective mourning; I didn’t feel prepared to be around so much public grief. But as the vigil drew closer, I began to reconsider—it might have been healing. My interview conflicted with it, though, and I couldn’t attend. Since then, I’ve seen the photos and videos from the evening, and it looked beautiful. I regret missing it.

I get in the car and drive the two hours to Charlotte, giving myself plenty of time, worried I’d get lost trying to find the Global Entry office—which, as it turns out, is like finding a needle in a haystack. The entrance is tucked behind a maze of “DO NOT ENTER” signs, making me feel like I’m in some kind of Squid Game test. I finally navigate a long, deserted hallway and reach a small office that looks closed. Inside, I find another tiny office and peek in, where a large, imposing officer—gun on hip—stands. As soon as I sit down, he instructs me to put my phone away, and my anxiety spikes; being around law enforcement tends to do that.

He asks for my name and passport, then asks if I’m married. I tell him, “No, I was supposed to get married two weeks ago, but it didn’t happen.” He asks me why and when I mention I live in Asheville, it takes a second for him to realize, “Oh, the hurricane! Aww damn, I’m sorry.” Then, with a smile, he adds, “So you’re saying I still have a chance?” which catches me completely off-guard and makes me laugh, immediately easing the tension.

Now, we're both laughing, and I tell him I’m getting my Global Entry for my “non-honeymoon”—what I’ve started calling it, so I can still have a “real” honeymoon when we eventually tie the knot. McCall (we’re on a first-name basis now) jokes, “Did the hurricane feel like a sign?” I laugh and say I actually joked about that to Charlie. “No way! Girl, I was just kidding—you shouldn’t say that to your future husband!” he laughs. I reply, “Maybe, but sometimes the universe gives us signs if we pay attention. And honestly, going through this has only brought us closer. If we can get through this, we can get through anything.”

Just to clarify, yes, I really did say this to Charlie. But let’s be clear—I don’t actually believe the hurricane happened to stop us from getting married. I mean, we all know the government controls hurricanes, duh. (Just kidding! And if you believe that, I have a lovely oceanfront property in Utah to sell you.)

Jokes aside, I do occasionally “talk to the universe,” which for me just means taking a step back and reflecting. When life gets rough, I’ll ask questions like, “Alright, Universe, what am I supposed to learn here? Why does it feel like a never-ending lunch of shit sandwiches? And how am I contributing to this situation?” In this case, I did pause to consider if there was something about my relationship I needed to pay closer attention to. Ultimately, going through this experience with Charlie has only strengthened my desire to marry him. Even though we’ve felt out of sync this week, we’ve shown each other extra patience and understanding, making space for where each of us is emotionally.

This has been incredibly hard, especially on relationships. Most people dealing with this will tell you it’s added stress. How could it not? Life is disrupted, balance is lost, you’re exhausted, emotional, and not feeling your best physically (and maybe a little stinky).

Back at my interview, McCall asks if my house was damaged and what I’ve been up to these last few weeks. I give him the short version, explaining that I’m not being brief to be rude—I’m just tired. He nods in understanding, saying he can tell I’m the type always taking care of others, and reminds me to look after myself. With that, he hands back my passport and sends me on my way. Five-minute interview, four hours of driving.

Our jam sessions kicked off at 2 PM the following day. When I turned on my computer at 9 AM, I saw we had another 13 sign-ups. It took three hours to fit them into the schedule, complicated by availability conflicts and the steady flow of people—friends stopping in for hugs, new faces for introductions—in and out of the studio’s control room. Scheduling musicians, by the way, is like herding cats; some who gave their availability later changed their minds, so I was juggling both new additions and rescheduling parts of the original 50.

I’d also reached out to friends at Drop of Sun, a local studio, a few days before and invited them to the studio. I wanted to learn about their relief efforts and see how we might support each other to aid artists in the long term. Having them there was wonderful as we welcomed musicians of all ages, abilities, and backgrounds into the studio.

In the end, we hosted around 70 musicians over three days, and it turned into something truly beautiful. The goal wasn’t a final product, though we recorded—it was about creating a space for our music community to come together.

It was incredible to see so many musicians meeting for the first time! Each session had its own unique vibe, with seasoned pros playing alongside people who’d only jammed in their garages. Some walked in intimidated, only to realize they belonged in the room—everyone did. Some joined multiple sessions, while others played just once.

We lost a drummer who was playing one two sessions on Friday. I texted a couple people to say we needed a drummer. One of my friends just happened to be applying for DSNAP (disaster supplemental nutrition assistance program) and he happened to be sitting across from an old dear friend who was processing applications. My friend Krum is a not only a damn good drummer but a damn good person. He’s a veteran and has helped so many other veterans throughout his life. It was so good to see him and share space with him.

He was telling me about his experience processing the DSNAP applications. He said many people sat down across from him and just breakdown crying. I told him about processing 225 applications for the ArtsAvl and about hearing first hand accounts of people losing everything. Krum said hearing these stories was harder than getting blown up in Iraq, which happened to him. Krum has lived through war (almost died) and he says this is harder. That’s perspective for you.

While we shared our experiences throughout this, we made sure to take time and reminisce about wonderful times from our past. We told the musicians and crew in the room stories about how we put a band together in 2009 and played my parents retirement community in Ocala, FL. We were called Midnight and the Smooches and to this day, I have no idea how we pulled it off. Those were good memories worth reliving. Before he left, Krum and I made a video to send to my parents with him sending his love.

I have to say, this is such an Asheville thing: my friend went to apply for financial assistance, and who should be processing his application but Krum, an incredible drummer and all-around great person. As I’ve said, it’s the people who make Asheville so special.

This gathering turned out to be exactly what was needed. Many hadn’t played in weeks, and we heard cover songs, originals, spoken word, and instrumentals across genres. It was truly magical, and everyone was grateful for the experience.

We’re hosting another jam on Monday with my dear friend Elizabeth Garland, founder of Slay the Mic Media, and there may be more to come—we’ll see. We recorded and filmed everything, and our next step is likely to mix a few songs and maybe host a listening party. We’ll need space for at least 100 people; I have a feeling that’s where we’re headed.

It feels like we’re moving forward, but we have such a long way to go—all of us in WNC. I know the Echo Mountain team needed this, too. We’ve decided to donate a portion of each paid session to disaster recovery. So tell your friends to book a session, enjoy our local restaurants, and do their holiday shopping at local businesses. We need you.

Thanks for reading.