SOUTH OF ASHEVILLE, N.C. — Buzzing chainsaws and growling generators have replaced the everyday suburban sounds of lawnmowers and birds in my neighborhood about 12 miles south of flooded parts of town. Waves of acrid smoke, from the burning of wet wood, filled the air.  We woke up Sunday with no running water, but fortunately had filled the tub and every water bottle we owned the night before, based on a warning from a 7-year-old the day before. “Did you hear we are going to lose water? My mom has a friend at the water department. They’re turning it off,” said the boy, who had stopped me Saturday on a walk to the elementary school. It is surreal to see my city, a growing artsy hotbed tucked into western North Carolina, in headlines right underneath Israel and the presidential election.  World Central Kitchen has arrived, a sign of the dire times. I may try to volunteer — at least until I have power and WiFi for my day job at The Hill.  Information at times has been scarce, given the difficulty of loading news sites on hiccuping signals. I could barely stand the information blackout after working at the Asheville Citizen-Times for 15 years. After Helene had passed on Saturday, my husband and I walked laps around a wide area, up to the home of friends, over to the nearby school. Everyone shared what they had seen or heard.  “Have you seen Fox Hollow Court? Devastated.” “I hear Swannanoa is flooded.” “What about Biltmore Village? Did the River Arts District survive?” It all began at 8 a.m. Thursday, with a text to some girlfriends: “We’ve gotten 7 inches of rain at the airport since 5 p.m.” Helene hadn’t yet arrived. That was from the preceding major storm.  The forecast maps published hours later showed parts of western North Carolina receiving maybe 2 feet of rain. I knew what that would look like if it were snow. But rain? And would it really rain that much? It was hard to believe.  We woke overnight to noisy bumps on the skylight. A glance out the window revealed only leaves plastered on the screen.  Up at 6 to walk the dog, I was disoriented by darkness. The power had gone out minutes before. The wind whipped and rain blew sideways.  The worst arrived over the next four hours. We hunkered in a lower room of our split-level house. We ate breakfast where we wouldn’t be hurt if a tree fell into the house.  The sound of a crack punctuated the white noise of wind. About 10 minutes later, a thud. From the front porch, I saw a 50-foot poplar crushing our wood fence and stretching over our side of the neighborhood’s split road, across a gully with a raging creek and coming to rest halfway across the outbound pavement. A pine tree fell across the driveway a short time later. Debris was everywhere. We opened the crawl space door. Boxes of holiday decor sat in inches of water, and the sideways-installed furnace hovered an inch over it. We believe that was groundwater that rose through the sheeting. We were the lucky ones. Over two days we bailed about 700 gallons. But that is a drop compared to the water that has destroyed this beautiful region.  A friend said that at times it looked like an episode of “Walking Dead,” with people wandering in the streets. Fallen trees were on cars, on houses. They crossed yards, tipped over sheds and blocked streets. But my area isn’t near a waterway, so flooding was minimal.  Connections to the outside world have come back slowly.  On Saturday morning, we learned we could get a cell signal in a gravel lot about a mile away, closer to a main road.  I drove there a few hours later, navigating a curvy road with trees and power and phone lines covering one lane or the other.  After texting family and friends, I opened Facebook and X and got a glimpse of the catastrophe, in words and the few images that would render.  Pleas for help, for food or water. Drone footage of buildings with river water nearly covering them. Photos of interstates washed out. Shocking stories and immense worry for people, homes, businesses.  At dawn Monday, a friend and I went to the grocery for dry goods. We spent two-plus hours in line since the store was letting only 10 people in at a time. And it was only taking cash. (Who has much cash on hand? A lesson learned.) Finally, late Monday, our phones started pinging with push alerts. Service. Three sweet bars of LTE at the house. We caught up on news, on NFL scores.  I started looking up photos of Asheville’s River Arts District, of Swannanoa, Black Mountain and Chimney Rock Village. I’ve run out of ways to describe the tremendous damage.  To conserve gas, I haven’t ventured far by car, except for a run to my husband’s office in Hendersonville, which had running water. The lines at stations with fuel, or the promise of it, have stretched to a mile long.  Now, on day five, larger streets in my narrow walking range are generally cleared and quiet, many residents having fled to stay with family or friends. Helicopters fly overhead at least once every couple of hours, presumably the National Guard. The thump of the low-flying ones, some Hueys, make the crystal wine glasses on our shelf rattle.  I try to listen on our old-school radio to the twice-daily press briefings from Buncombe County. Without regular internet it’s been the only way to get reliable information.  The three bars of LTE signal are back down to two, which may let in an occasional SMS. All talk of politics here has been nearly forgotten, as we seek word of where we can get ice or fuel, or find out who has power or water.  Asheville hosts millions of visitors each year. But the western North Carolina you may know and love will never look the same. It will forever be remembered as “before Helene” and “after Helene.”