It’s hard to believe that three weeks ago, millions of us were on the road, heading off to watch the great wonder of the Solar Eclipse.
Today, Sophie the Gray is howling on the back porch, expressing her displeasure at being exiled from the house. Sorry, Sophie: vet’s orders. We need to keep the cats apart for the weekend in order to monitor Cleo the Bold, who sounds like a small, broken engine. Twice a day, I must track Cleo down, wrap her in a towel, cradle her in my arms, and administer oral medications. Two syringes of yuck. She hates it, and lets me know by hissing as I set her down. But within minutes, she has forgiven me, and comes to keep me company at my keyboard.
She might be fine. She might be dying. We must wait and see.
Yesterday, because it was such a beautiful day, I took the back roads home from the grocery store. Publix had restocked water and other essentials. I noticed a woman crossing the street, carrying a gallon jug of water in each hand. Behind her, in a carport, the back hatch of a small car stood open. She, too, had been to the grocery store. And now she was delivering water to her neighbor. We chatted for a moment, strangers to each other, but aware of the need for connection.
I drove on, windows down, comforted by the exchange. Everything would be okay, I told myself, and then I burst into tears.
We will get through this. We will.
Irma continues to churn. From time to time, she turns our way. She is ruthless. And so is Jose. Nothing personal. It’s Hurricane Season. Fifty days to go.
By the way, the local newspaper is providing free coverage for now, as we drift in and out of the path of the storm.
We were a long way away from the storm when the water ran out. That sounds like fiction but it wasn’t. On Tuesday, August 30, 2017, there was an unexpected run on water at the local grocery stores. Shelves were empty. Not a storm in sight.
But after Harvey (six days after, to put a bookmark on things), all it took was the news that a storm had formed out in the Atlantic. It was only a Tropical Storm, but it was a system born in the water off the coast of Cape Verde. As if beyond this map lay monsters.
And they do. But this time of year, they escape. And they come seeking water. Ravenous beasts.
This morning, there was plenty of water at the grocery store. The local Publix had a police escort to rush the water back up here to the shelves. I bought two gallons for 59 cents each, even though we have plenty of tap water.
There was something comforting about the idea of water contained. Safe in the closet. For now.
Matagorda sounds like a bull-fighting term. A dramatic sweep of red silk across a blood-soaked, sunlit arena.
But matagorda is a Spanish word that means ‘thick brush.”
It’s also the name of a small town on the Gulf Coast of Texas, established in 1827 by Stephen Austin while the land was still part of Mexico. The town sits on the banks of the Colorado River.
It’s also the name of an estuary bay located on the Gulf of Mexico. This is roughly the area where Harvey has *taken a turn back out into the Gulf. But at least the estuary has the chance to absorb the storm. Let it be a thick brush that soaks up the water.
Because, unfortunately, Harvey is forecast to make landfall again and head north in a day or two. Towards Houston. But – praying here – without the intensity. More rain, though. How much and for how long, remains to be seen.
If you are looking for great on-the-ground weather reports, I highly recommend Space City Weather. Two guys and a storm named Harvey.
* Note: I had things backwards regarding Harvey – out to the Gulf at Matagorda, not making landfall. Guess I was just trying to hurry this damned storm along.
On my way back from the side trip into the life of Ms. Kelly at the mall, I was stopped at the light, getting ready to turn left on to Lovejoy Road. Mary Esther Boulevard had the green light and the right of way.
We had a red arrow, and that was fine by me. The vehicle ahead of me got tired of waiting for the light to change, so they pulled out when the traffic cleared and went their way up the boulevard. I was now first in line.
Enough time had passed that I wondered if the lights were working when they suddenly turned yellow. And then red. Traffic continued through the intersection. What are red lights when you have things to do and places to be?
But finally the intersection cleared. Up ahead, I saw a red truck coming down Mary Esther Boulevard. Coming faster than was normal to stop at the red light.
Cars had already started turning left from Lovejoy Road onto Mary Esther Parkway. But the red truck kept coming. I could feel the impact of the red truck on the silver SUV that was moving through the intersection.
So I leaned on the horn. I leaned hard.
The red truck slowed. The silver SUV sped up. The second car on Lovejoy Road stopped. The red truck swept through by like a boat on a busy river. I could see the driver, mouth open, phone still held to her head, possibly still talking without a pause, as if death had never stepped into the intersection, waiting for her call.
Note: the photo image in this post was taken by Sasha Lebedeva.
If you are familiar with either the play or the movie, then perhaps the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word, Harvey, is a large, invisible rabbit.
No such thing as invisible rabbits in the Gulf of Mexico in late August. But then again, Harvey turned out to be real. A gentle giant. No such thing can be said of the storms that form in the heat of the waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
But they – rabbits and storms – are natural things. Like ants. And stars. And cicadas.
A few days back, we stopped at a Welcome Center in Kentucky located just off of Interstate 65. A man was standing on the sidewalk, in the shade of a circle of trees. He was surrounded by a roar of noise that had nothing to do with the big trucks roaring by on I-65.
Cicadas? I asked. He grinned. You bet. We agreed that we’d never heard them be so loud. It’s probably the eclipse, I joked. Probably, he said. But you won’t need to worry until your dog starts speaking in tongues. And then we went on our way. A pair of wags, wandering through the universe.
The man at the Welcome desk asked if there was something he could help me with. I asked him about the cicadas. Why are they so loud?
It’s their last 24 hours, he replied, in that tone of voice more suited to a funeral parlor than a Welcome Center guide.
How do you know it isn’t their first 24 hours? That they aren’t just happy to be alive? But he didn’t answer. It was as if I hadn’t made a sound.
As for Harvey, I prefer the James Stewart version of events. Be safe out there.