They'd asked that we all stay down on the first floor. Then all of a sudden, we looked and there was water seeping in under the doors. The wind was blowing. The kitchen and everything was flooded downstairs, so they weren't able to do anything for us. So they scrambled around and found some bread and made sandwiches for us. They got water up to us. We fared very well.

Most of them knew that they probably didn't have a house to go home to. And they were taking care of us. They were staying there with us, but they didn't know whether their homes was existing or not.

So we felt that we were in a very safe place.

Lend me thy pen To write a word In the moonlight. Pierrot, my friend! My candle's out, I've no more fire;-- For love of God Open thy door! [Fr., Au clair de la lune Mon ami Pierrot, Prete moi ta plume Pour ecrire un mot; Ma chandelle est morte, Je n'ai plus de feu, Ouvre moi ta porte, Pour l'amour de Dieu.]

If anybody touches a page, they touch it for accessibility.

Truth is heavy, so few men carry it.