Hurricane

Hunkered down, waiting for the hurricane. Got our coolers of ice, flashlights and batteries, candles and cans of tuna. Got Hugh home from his school since it sits right on the Gulf. Got the radio on with all the usual reports of storm surges and downed power lines and flash flood alerts.

I probably shouldn't admit this, but I love hurricanes. Not the actual hurricane, not the danger and the destruction, but this part, the waiting part. Each hurricane is different, but The Wait is always the same. Preparation rituals replace the ordinary rules. The suspension of normal work and school routines infuses The Wait with holiday flavors. A beer at 10 am? Why not? Better use up the meat in the freezer and the leftovers in the fridge—so everyone gathers for an impromptu party. Even the last-minute scramble for batteries and ice becomes something of a game as we pass on tips, exchange horror stories, and share our loot —“The Home Depot on Airline still has D-batteries!” “Four hours in line for ice!” “We picked up flashlights for you guys.” The sky is clear; it’s still hot; the whole idea of a storm seems unreal. I hit the sale at Talbot’s, buy Hugh a sweatshirt at the Gap, weed the back flower bed. But then the wind begins to pick up and the temperatures to inch down. We secure our lawn furniture, take in the potted plants, make sure we’ve ground the coffee beans, debate which car gets to take shelter under the carport. We wake in the middle of the night to the whoosh of wind and snuggle under the sheets. In the morning we sit at the window and watch the trees sway and bow and bend, crazed dancers at a rave, flinging their limbs about with abandon.

I think, “I should get some work done.” But I know I won’t. It’s a hurricane. Ordinary life on hold. I just love this bit.