In the path of a hurricane

As the news of Hurricane Harvey bearing down on Texas reached the country, it reminded me of the first hurricane season I ever experienced while in the path of one.

A massive tropical depression began forming near Bermuda, became a hurricane, was named, identified, the path charted right for the North Carolina town I temporarily called home.

Hurricane

It was somewhere around 1980 when I was working for National Red Cross in my first off-farm job, and my boss was a wizened older woman, as southern as they come.

Miss Elizabeth Taylor had spent her life as a civilian worker for American National Red Cross, assigned to the military throughout wars and conflicts all over the globe.

I realize now, all these years later, she had seen it all. A mere hurricane wasn’t going to ruffle her feathers.

As daily, then hourly, news reports escalated, I watched and waited for instruction from her.

When I asked if someone should consider boarding windows before it became much more difficult to do so, she put her hand on her hip and said, “What in the world are you talking about, girl?”

Weather

I had grown up knowing to listen to the weather, which far too many times was not an ally. But Miss Taylor didn’t know this.

She asked, “What’s a young thing like you doin’ listenin’ to the weather anyway? Don’t pay it no mind.”

It was the strangest feeling. Unlike a tornado or a severe thunderstorm popping up out of nowhere a hurricane sets its course and can be tracked far in advance.

The knowledge and the many warnings that accompany it should have felt somewhat comforting, but instead, I felt fear and confusion as I noticed the great human response divide becoming clear.

I was “a dang land-locked Yankee” who had no head for such things, according to my boss.

“Mark my words, this thing will blow on out to sea and you will look like a fool for worryin’ yourself.”

Those who worried and bought water, fresh batteries and extra flashlights were all dumb rookies. The rest, all so much wiser, went about their days as though there was not a worry in the world.

The Category 4 Hurricane gathered force, taking aim for our spot on the map. Then, it took a turn, appeared to blow out to sea, and I most definitely looked like a fool.

Miss Elizabeth Taylor chided me boldly for it.

Near miss

Within just a couple of days, our fate had once again turned with the rip tides, as this massive hurricane, now enormous and ever stronger, had turned back for us once again.

This time, even the sturdy locals sat up and listened. Batteries, milk, water, food and plywood all flew off the shelves.

We were told to hunker down or leave town. Plywood went up right along with anxiety levels.

In the end, the hurricane made a last-minute turn slightly toward the north and blasted the Outer Banks on Labor Day weekend.

The high winds brought heavy rains to bear on us which seemed mighty enough, causing structural damage and serious flooding.

We can never underestimate the sheer force of excessive water and battering winds. As an accused Yankee weather wimp, I felt vindicated.