Waiting for a Hurricane

Michael, are you there? I said with my nose against the window this morning. All was eerily calm. There must be meaning to that phrase “calm before the storm.” It’s that hot, humid feeling of stillness when nature is strangely quiet.

The day before Irma hit last year I remember some eccentric things. There was an owl hooting in the middle of the day. Maybe the wind was disturbing its sleep. There was also a large amount of carpenter ants out during the daytime, scampering around on the driveway as though they were making an emergency evacuation. Maybe they sensed that water was going to inundate their nest.

This time, for the second time this year, I am in luck. I’m not getting much off of Hurricane Michael. We live in the hurricane equivalent of the place that the socks disappear to in the dryer. Hurricanes don’t notice us. Despite being on the east coast of Florida, we haven’t had a direct hit since the 1960’s, although we took a pretty good beating the last two years. A direct hit happens about as often as snow. In 1951 there was two inches on the ground, and I’m sure it was a state of emergency here.

I love this land, and all that comes with it. There is something humorous about every season. First, spring comes with a nip of cold and suddenly it is flip-flop weather; summer allows for lazy beach days of watching the antics of women taking selfies in their bikinis, and men showing off their time at the gym; autumn brings with it basically no change in temperature but lots of opportunities to have bonfires and drink wine with friends; then winter drags in late to the show, often not showing up until January and then making only a slack effort. But wait, the fifth season goes right back in there between the last two, and it is most dramatic of them all.

Hurricane season is a mixture of humor and hysteria. First, it is humor, and the memes show up. “So you wanted falling leaves, Florida? How about the whole tree?” And then an actual hurricane pops up as a harmless looking red symbol on the Hurricane Center’s radar. All the natives shrug, wanting to look tough: “Eh, it’s a category 2, what’s the big deal?” Before long everyone is obsessively checking for the 11:00 update, the spaghetti models plastered across screens. Suddenly, it’s a category 4, and then hysteria sets in. Depending on impact, the southbound lanes of the interstate are naked for the fuel trucks to cruise down, trying to replenish the ravaged gas stations of the south as everyone else is trying to flee the bottom of the peninsula. A lot of us join the “Riders of the Storm” Facebook group, and look uneasily at all the questions being posted. “I’m in an evacuation zone in the path of the storm, will I die?”

Last year I recall the shadows of the swaying trees were cast on my kitchen floor by the neighbor’s street light. The shadows kept making me think something was out there, and making me uneasy. Then the power went out, and that problem was solved. You’ve got to count your blessings.

The hurricane is passing by us soon. We’ve only had one hard burst of rain and a tumultuous looking sky. No excitement, but no excitement really is a good thing.