TREASURE LANE
FINDING BEAUTY IN THE HURRICANE AFTERMATH
Trepidation laced my brother's voice—a rarity from him. "You gotta hide from the wind and run from the water," he warned.
This time, I was scared.
Treasure Lane. The name had seemed so fitting when we first moved here. Our quiet, picturesque street lined with waterfront homes, each a gem overlooking the bay leading to the Gulf of Mexico. But nature has a way of redefining treasure.
Barely two weeks had passed since Hurricane Helene ravaged our home, turning our pretty little neighborhood into a waterlogged war zone.
As night fell, I ushered my kids to bed early—no power meant little else to do. So, we surrendered to sleep, hoping to wake to relieved "phews" and "close call" chatter. Instead, at just 10pm we were jolted awake to a cacophony of fire alarms screaming bloody murder.
My 13-year-old, desperate to escape the piercing noise, ventured outside. "There's someone with a flashlight," he called. Descending our staircase leading to the driveway, we encountered our neighbor Ronan, poised for his own escape.
"Can I come over with my dog?" he asked urgently.
My reply was nothing short of naive. "No, I think we need to get out of here," fixated on silencing the deafening alarms.
His expression said more than his words as he pointed to the street. "It's too late."
And that's when the realization hit me. We weren’t going anywhere. Our beautiful road had already become a treacherous moat, completely submerged, water rising from both sides of our houses, creeping closer and closer to our doors.
After he helped us silence the alarms, we did all that was left to do.
Sit in the dark and wait.
As Ronan and I perched on my front steps, watching the waters rise from every direction, the grim reality sunk in. The storm was still rampant, and high tide wasn't due until 2 am.
The worst was yet to come.
As the night wore on, my home transformed into an island of refuge in a sea of rising fears. By midnight, our second floor had become an impromptu shelter. Ten adults, four children, and four dogs, all dreading the dawn that would reveal what remained of our homes.
The arrival of the last family still gives me chills. Through the darkness and relentless waters, we watched as they emerged from their window, their home surrendering to the floods. They carefully placed their two toddlers into a kayak, while another neighbor carried their dog high in her arms. Together, they waded through the deep water, guiding their precious cargo across what had once been our street—our treasured lane now a treacherous canal.
With another hurricane threatening just two weeks later, not a single neighbor has stayed to brave this one out. Our piece of paradise had become a recurring nightmare, and we've all learned our lesson the hard way.
Once perfectly manicured lawns, now gravesites of life’s collected items. The dark waters have left an indelible mark - nothing porous that touched the water can be saved, all of it contaminated, we’re told. Our interior walls must be carved out with urgency, a race against time to avoid mold infestation and a lifetime of side effects.
My family and I had traded London's hustle and gloom for Florida's sunshine and candy-colored sunsets just three years ago. Now, Nature was showing us its force. Perhaps this is the price you pay for 360 days of sunshine—the cost of leasing a life in paradise.
Yet, in the aftermath, the true treasure of our lane reveals itself - and it’s not in property values or insurance claims. Some have retreated to hotel rooms, others to family homes far from the coast. A few are camping out in RVs in their driveways.
Then there's 97-year-old Eddie, a fixture on Treasure Lane since 1970. A retired fireman who's lived through World War II, Korea, and now Helene and Milton. The night of Helene, Eddie refused to move. He stayed in his bed as the waters rose, his mattress becoming a makeshift raft. His stubbornness is matched only by his resilience, a living testament to the spirit of our street.
Ray, a long-haired automotive retiree, fought the waters tooth and nail. He sat in his kitchen, cracked his beers, and used every blanket and towel he could find to mop up the intruder and protect his valuables. He surprised even himself when somehow he found the strength to lift his ginormous wooden bed to save his ornate Chinese rug from ruin.
Ray's brother Tom lives just across the street with his wife Julie. Tom's the rugged all-American character, wild eyed and a naughty grin, who honks and waves every day. Julie’s the firecracker you want to be next to when life gets too serious. The night of the storm, Tom was out helping anyone who needed it, even as his own house was drowning. Their shared home was once a treasure chest of unique trinkets, ornaments, and rare collectibles. Now, their driveway is littered with prized possessions, transformed into trash. Tom's perspective is short and sweet: "Hey, what are you gonna do?" Yet one evening at sunset, when everyone comes out to play, I saw tears in his eyes. It was a poignant reminder that even the toughest among us aren't immune to the weight of loss.
A few of the younger residents took a more proactive approach. Evan is "that guy" who can fix stuff. The neighbor that's up late tinkering with machines in his garage, repairing boats and selling them on for fun. The night of Helene, Evan and his buddy transformed into unlikely heroes. They launched a small motorboat into the churning waters, hell-bent on saving some watercraft’s. They managed to rescue several boats on the verge of being lost at sea. For others, they reinforced moorings and secured them tightly. Their daring escapade embodies the resourceful nature of these humans I'm proud to know, where neighbors don't hesitate to put themselves on the line for each other—even when it comes to saving a few water toys.
Bob and Allison, my immediate neighbors, possess a different kind of strength. Their home has always been their pride, a reflection of their hard work and love for life. Bob is our street's unofficial prime minister, Allison the first lady. He knows every neighbor's name and story. He's the pulse of this lane, keeping everyone connected and informed. Lately, life has thrown everything it can at Bob. Laid off from his job, losing his sister, a prostate cancer diagnosis, and now this devastation. Yet, I've never heard him utter a word of complaint or negativity. His unwavering optimism in the face of such adversity is both inspiring and humbling. If Bob loses hope, we all might falter.
I guess, as the waters rose, so did our collective. Quickly realizing it's not the beauty of our surroundings or the promise of an endless summer that makes Treasure Lane so special. It's the people—their humanity, their courage, the shared experience of loss and recovery, and the knowledge that we're in it together.
Peace and Love
TREASURE LANE
INVISIBLE YOUTH: How Schools Fail Kids Today
A personal response to a flawed educational system failing so many kids…
It all began when my son was 8. He overheard a school teacher call him "the boy with issues". Naturally he asked me the following day, "Mum, do I have issues?" My answer was immediate. Without hesitation: "Yes. Everyone does."
Yet as the years pass, I watch my gregarious boy repeatedly slapped back with judgment from institutions that all say they celebrate individuality, but eventually bristle at his nonconformity. And with each incident, his skin thickens and his spirit dulls. The label becomes a reputation, the reputation morphs into a persona, and the persona hardens into a shield against the words that keep on coming. The child who once filled every room with joy is now riddled with self-doubt. All because the very people charged with nurturing his growth have instead become arbiters of “normalcy” - judges of character, deciding which quirks are acceptable and which have to be expunged in order to “fit in”.
He’s now 12 years old and officially diagnosed with ADHD. He is boisterous, creative, forgetful, sensitive, daring, curious, gets bored easily and is occasionally impulsive with words and actions. Selective memory of a brilliant mind. And when he is stressed or emotionally overwhelmed, he tics - physical reactions to his weakness towards talking about things that bother him. Above all though, he is a child. His main purpose in life is to make his friends laugh, be loved by all. He's most at ease in front of a crowd, surrounded by attention. Yet his character faces daily scrutiny and rigid discipline. Targeted for minor infractions, barred from mistakes and presumed ill-behaved. Learning feels impossible with a target on his back.
But his story is far from unique.
MUMMY’S A RAVER?
How to talk to our kids about drugs. A HER SAY original.
We move towards the hypnotized crowd. The bass, vibrating deep in my chest. The DJ transitions, seamlessly. Strobing lights flash wildly, illuminating the mass of bodies, pulsing and twisting. I dance with abandon. I can feel my friend's rapid heartbeat matching mine. I grip her hand as we plunge into the fray. The deafening music envelopes us. Blinding beams of green and purple slice through the artificial smoke. Heightening the surreal. It’s-just-kicked-in. I’M HIGH AS FUCK. My grin - involuntary. My skin - glistening with tingle. My senses - overwhelmed. The dizzying array of sights, the bone-rattling bass, the tactile feel of bodies casually pressing against mine. This euphoric moment is electric, primal, intoxicating. I surrender. And we melt -Into the music. Into the moment. Transported to a place beyond reason, beyond words. The outside world slips away. In this space, we are infinite.
But WAIT, this isn't my moment? This ecstatic release, this reckless joy - it's not mine. It’s my child's. My world, my purpose, now on the brink of adulthood. No more little hand clutching mine as I guide you through life. My first born, entering into the big bad world. Without me by their side. Karma’s inevitable, now dancing, alone.
AND suddenly, I’M FUCKING TERRIFIED. My artificial, hypothetical high - now replaced with gripping paranoia and fear. If control was once something I occasionally loved to let go of, I now desperately want it back. But can my hypocritical mind be shifted?
Can I be shown the light?
I check in with my HER SAY collective to gain some much needed perspective on talking to our kids about drugs.
For Full Article READ ON HERE… https://www.hersay.co/posts/mummy-was-a-raver-what-are-we-telling-our-kids
photo’s by YUSHY Pachnanda
Raising the Perfect Child.
ARTICLE WRITTEN IN LONDON, 2015
“Mummy, what would be a good comeback to ‘fuck off’?”, says my straight-faced five year old to me at breakfast this morning. The inherent strength in his voice commands the attention of our posh, middle-aged table neighbours and I immediately feel the chill of their judgmental breath. I keep cool and resist the urge to laugh, even though my pupils feel as though they’ve just perforated my corneas. I had been explaining to him what a ‘comeback’ was that morning. My previous example had been the obvious toddler relatable comeback: “in a while, crocodile!” Clearly, I had forgotten for that moment what sort of toddler I was dealing with. I’d love to lie and tell you that my five year old is the perfect innocent sampling of child purity - never exposed to cursing or scary adult TV, crude hip-hop lyrics or the occasionally inebriated mummy and daddy. But the truth is, my son is the perfect innocent sampling of childhood purity, living in the real world; my world. Now before you go thinking I’m this negligent parent running my kid around town barefoot and taking him to Kanye West concerts after a few pints, let me remind you that I am similar to you, perhaps - a parent that cares. I’ve read the books. I’ve had plenty of sleepless nights, shed many a tear and spent an absurd amount of time on Mumsnet making sure I’m doing it all correctly. And let’s face it; sometimes I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Because what first time parent ever does? The one solid certainty that unites us sometimes clueless, helpless, lost mothers is that we love our children to no end and we want the absolute best for them despite our overcluttered, fast-paced lives.
Okay, so going back to the “fuck off” comment over breakfast cereal (gluten-free breakfast cereal, obviously!). I’m sure you’re wondering where he would have heard something like that before? Well, the simple answer is: I don’t fucking know. We live in London, where we’re surrounded by herds of people on a regular basis. He goes to a state school, where older pupils are the soap to his spongy soul. His dad works in the music business and regularly tests out the quality of newly written (not always clean) pop songs on our son’s youthful ears. I’m in the beginnings of a career in film and could be mostly known for my heavy-handed preference to write and direct dark character dramas, often set in heavily dismal worlds. So, I guess the better thought out answer is: he could have heard it anywhere.
Does this make me a bad mum? Am I not safeguarding my child enough? Is there even such a thing? I mean, I guess I could quit my job and aim my twisted hand at CBeebies pitches and confine him to the four walls of his room for most of his young life. Or I guess a more sensible, realistic approach would be to move to Barnes??? Fuck, wait; we already did that. Okay, so I guess I could start pretending to believe in God, join the local church, home school him, only associate with school mums that look like they haven’t bathed in four days but at least they don’t smoke, curse or have lives outside of their children.
But really, what’s more important to me? The preservation of my son’s short-lived innocence, or the preservation of what’s left of ME after my parental responsibilities? The cool, selfish me thinks I shouldn’t have to choose or give up my personal life and aspirations to settle and JUST be mum. But, of course, there is no way around the sacrifices you have to make to be a GOOD mum. And for me a GOOD mum means spending at least one hour a day cuddling, kissing, tickling and showering my son with affection. No more than 1 hour a day of TV (okay, who am I fucking kidding, 3 sometimes 4 if it’s the weekend or I’ve got lots of work to do). Regular, impromptu, aimless excursions to satisfy our need for adventure (granted sometimes we end up in the pub at the end of them, but at least our imaginations have been stimulated and I’m a terrible cook). Before school every morning we play loud music and practise silly dance moves. And lastly, we laugh. We laugh A LOT.
See I’m not trying to raise a perfect child. I’m trying to raise a happy one. And it just so happens he’s pretty badass as well. And by the way, I might have stuck my tongue out at the stiff, old couple on our way out of breakfast that morning, because my answer to the “fuck off” question was, “Clever and mature comebacks always win.” And clearly I practise what I preach!
MASKED MEN
TOXIC MASCULINITY : Gimmick or Real Life Persona?
“When I put on the mask, I'm transformed. The mask gives me strength. The mask gives me fame. The mask is magical…”
— El Hijo del Santo
Under the harsh lights, mythic warriors take stage. A ceremonious spectacle. Modern gladiators of the Mexican ring. The painted pig skin transforms them into phantasmal heroes. But what do we make of the masks men wear beyond the limelight? Away from the amphitheater. Who lurks inside the armored façade?
In the coliseum of life, boys are initiated into a cult of masculinity. Taught to repress vulnerability, their emotions distorted like echoes in the underground. The true self recedes, usurped by a phantom.
From tender youth boys don masks of adamant, false versions of manhood. Their humanity muted by prideful arrogance. The rites of passage that mold boy into archetype. “Man up.” “Boys don’t cry.” “Take it like a man.” Words often reinforced by mothers, sisters, and female peers.
But behind the stoic veneer, does anguish fester? This obsession with masculine strength and repression of vulnerability creates troubled men, absent fathers, and lost boys.
Unmasking toxic machismo reveals the diverse spectrum of manhood in all its beauty. Better to glimpse the authentic self, naked and unvarnished, than worship empty heroic tropes.
LINK TO ALL IMAGES:
https://juniorshoots53.pixieset.com/maskedmen/
Photographer : Trenton Junior