August 14, 2004
Another Bust
For me, anyway. I cannot speak for the damage wrought by Charley in Port Charlotte, or Orlando, or Daytona, but certainly a bust for me.
And by bust I mean a bust for The Bride. She so looks forward to tragedy and mayhem, and prepares exquisitely for it, so when it does not occur she goes into deep funk. I do no believe she will awaken until Sunday.
I have a theory, or rather a set of theories, on hurricanes:
1) Jax is nearly bulletproof. The eastern seaboard carves so deeply westward at Jax that it resides in a virtual womb of protection. The Gulf Stream is 60 miles away, at least. This place is a hidey hole from cyclonic storms.
2) The northwest pressure: northwesterlies always push Gulf storms east. So much so the meteorologists were predicting a Florida landfall when the storm was crossing Jamaica heading northwest.
3) My juju. I, by dint of will, forced Floyd offshore in '99, and Bonnie to the west 3 days ago. No tropical occurrence has ever had the guff to take me on. Actually, I beg them on, but they know better. They back off, and think Wilmington. It's a gift.
Seriously, though, I feel for The Bride. When the barometer plummets she goes into action mode: foodstuffs, bottled water, batteries, first aid kits. Not to mention a constant barrage of cell phone calls and dire predictions to me: leave work now! Get firewood! Slay a beefalo!
I do what I can, but at this point pickings are slim. No D cells will be found, at any price, and they only sell ground chuck at Winn Dixie.
My secret? No secret, just hunch: I figure we won't be hit. But if we are, I have it covered: see, I hide from my kids. Iffen I buy 10 D cell batteries and leave them exposed, or in a public flashlight, my girls will turn on the flashlight, and throw the thing into a closet, and close the door. Think I'm kidding? No. They will then open most of the cans of food I'd stockpiled, taken a bite, and left them for ruin. They will use my distilled water to float a beta fish already belly up, slosh precious freshwater on their heads for pre-storm shampooings.
Therefore I have a System. I hide it all. I have fresh D cells in my sock drawer for the Maglite and other flashlights. I have potable water in half-litre size stored under the workbench. I have canned food in the toolchest. I have a battery powered Sony TV under a cloth on the workbench.
I still have to go through the spasms, of course. Every storm threat means I will have to go through the same ritual.
I just make sure I have the fruit of the loins of the God Propane, and some ice. Propane is a true gift: did you know you can freeze off planar warts with judicious blasts of propane? Or shoo a homeless person out of your crawlspace with nothing more than a rubber hose addition? I didn't think so.
I'll miss Charley, the '80's designer perfume of hurricanes. Why can't they name one Marley, or Tosh? I suppose they do, but how often do we get to the M's in a season, much less the T's?