Three Days in a Hurricane Shelter

I live in Florida, but hail from Chicago, so the contrast between living in the two areas of the country is very stark to me. The experience of having to periodically run for my life from hurricanes has become a reality. As I scurried about, preparing for Hurricane Irma, it struck me that friends and relatives who were calling with their concerns, never participated in this tradition that is a regular feature of life in southern, coastal areas. Here, we begin our seasonal preparations every June as naturally as breathing--stockpiling batteries, canned goods and water, testing radios, bringing in outdoor furniture, checking shutters. We spent Hurricane Charley huddled in our walk-in closet back in 2004, so I felt we have some experience under our belts and had a certain confidence about the year’s series of storms as they rolled across the Atlantic. However, this year’s hurricane season brought Irma and a new experience—the stay in a local hurricane shelter—and, given the series of hurricanes in the news, I thought I should relate what it’s like for people who deal with hurricanes on a regular basis.

Hurricane shelters are local buildings that have been deemed appropriate for housing large numbers of members of the community during times of severe weather. It’s hard to describe the kind of damage 130 mph winds can do to homes, businesses, roads and utilities in a community. You’ve seen the pictures— in your imagination, just put your whole life and all you cherish in the middle of those images. Hurricane Harvey had hit the Houston area a few weeks before, and the images were very fresh for us. When Hurricane Irma suddenly changed course and headed toward my home city (we joked news stations may as well have mentioned our home address on weather reports), we got scared. We considered hitting the road for a safer area, but Irma covered the entire state, and hotels well into Georgia and Atlanta were already booked with evacuees from the coming storm. So, we headed to our local hurricane shelter.

Day One:  Our shelter, one that took pets to accommodate our little Chihuahua mix, Bella, was a huge and relatively new high school. We stood in line for some time to “check in,” to have our names and our dog registered and to receive our identifying wristbands. Police personnel were there to check IDs against their database. We had our blankets, pillows, food and water, as recommended. We set up our little encampment in a well-lighted hallway on the second floor. And we waited, safe and secure, for the hurricane to roll in.

Day Two: The high school was built to serve about 2,000 students. It was expected to hold about 3,000 evacuees. Scared, last-minute stragglers ballooned this figure to 4,000. About 500 pets were sheltered in a separate part of the building. By the time the hurricane actually hit on Sunday afternoon, there were people lined along the hallways and filling the auditorium, with carefully cleared “walkways” between blanketed homesteads. All types of people were there, older white people, young black families, Hispanic extended family groups—everyone was there, from the tiniest newborns to most fragile elders. There was not a ripple of discord, because we were all sheltered against the storm—an exterior danger that made us all more tolerant of more adjacent irritations. There were volunteer helpers to answer questions and fire department medical personnel for health emergencies. Babies napped, older gentlemen followed the hurricane track on their phones, children connected to others and played companionably. Shelter authorities provided basic meals three times each day and gave weather updates over the public address system. People slept fitfully during the night, but they slept, stumbling at various hours in the morning to the school bathrooms to brush their teeth and make themselves presentable in this unusual situation.

Day Three: Evacuees read, did puzzles, talked of past hurricanes, listened to music on their phones or watched streamed weather reports. People collected at the glass-enclosed entryway and at windows to watch the storm pass over. Trees bent, and the rain pounded. It came and went uneventfully for us. At no time did any of us feel threatened. The lights stayed on, and the air-conditioning continued to run. A curfew was in effect, so no one could leave even after the worst of the storm was over. We settled in for our last night as a refugee community, with a sense of relief and some anxiety about what we would find when we returned to our homes.

All in all, our time as shelterers from the storm was enlightening. If you ever wonder if our public educational facilities are truly necessary, a time like this helps you understand they are more than just buildings for education—they are centers of the community. They provide a location—and an organizational structure—for many important services. Secondly, you learn that people really are all alike. They love their families, they have certain basic physical requirements, they respond emotionally in a uniform manner. Thirdly, you understand how much we all need each other. The concept of “self reliance” is an illusion—and always has been—in the face of nature’s power. And finally, we should all remember we all live on the edge of a knife. Our technology can disappear abruptly, the flow of fresh water can stop in an instant, our homes can evaporate, medical care can be entirely absent. Those who live in hurricane-prone areas understand this on a visceral level.

I hope I don’t have to do this too many times in the future, but I would not have missed this experience for the world. It brought us back to a primal level of human connection.

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Thoughts On Buying A New Car

I had to buy a new car. I don’t know how it is for everyone else, but the entire process of changing vehicles is a huge and difficult passage for me. I am madly attached to my vehicle, regardless of how much trouble it gives to me in its later years. My car is like my favorite pair of comfortable shoes—it has carried me through many an experience. It sat with me in cheesy motel parking lots on road trips. It helped carry my loved ones to hospital emergency rooms. It ushered me to concerts, summer festivals, family reunions, wedding receptions and school events. It also joined in a number of somber funeral processions. My car is like a witness to my life. And letting go of it is like saying goodbye to an old friend—fraught with sadness, anxiety and uncertainty about what comes next.

Another anxiety-producing event was removing all my personal effects from my old car. And since I had the car for such a long time, it turned out to be a time capsule of all the intervening years. Repair receipts, old parking slips, theater stubs, reward cards from stores, favorite CDs, small cologne containers, half-rolls of Tums, a pepper spray, spare tissues. The things we keep in our cars to make us comfortable are very telling. Some people keep guns in their glove compartments. Some people keep emergency snacks. You probably keep something in your glove box you’d rather people not know about. The collection makes one think of George Carlin’s old comedy routine about “stuff,” whittling down your personal “stuff” into smaller and smaller bits to carry along with you as you go about your life. Your car carries a micro-supply of “stuff” you feel you need as you travel down the road. 

Then, there’s the issue of choosing a new car. I don’t need to tell you that buying a new car is a major expense. Payment for a car has to be carefully structured into your household budget or disaster ensues. The price of a new car is often at great odds with what you would like. Your final choice is often a significantly scaled-down version of what you first hoped to have. On top of that, so many of the car models look remarkably similar—it almost doesn’t matter what make of car you like. You may as well go for the cost and whatever consumer rating companies recommend—unless you are willing to spend the amounts needed for a truly remarkable vehicle. I’m not. My car will always be a method of getting me from here to there. It is not an expression or gratification of my ego. I’d rather spend the money on clothes. Or a vacation. Or new carpeting for my home, which my dogs always destroy in one way or another.

The current trend toward loading the car with all sorts of electronics is disturbing for some of us purist car drivers. I don’t know how many electronic views I’m going to need for backing up—one seems sufficient. And having everything “syncing up” with my phone seems unnecessary, or even reckless. I’m certain I will not be using about 50 percent of the features on the car. I’m not sure if these features are adding to the cost of vehicles. Maybe they are so cheap to produce, they just throw them in. But I don’t really think people find them necessary—or even helpful. But hey—thanks for including them, I guess. And another thing, all these features make reading the owner’s manual a laborious task that takes up too much of my free time.

The process of negotiating the price of the car seems to have been cleaned up a bit from previous eras. You no longer feel like you’re going into hand-to-hand combat with the dealership salesperson. Salespeople are much nicer now, overtly straightforward, even solicitous—so much so, that you come out feeling, “Oh, I don’t feel beat up—I must have been screwed over in some clever, underhanded way.” But I do appreciate their effort to make the process more painless.

So, now, I have a new car. Like all relationships, we have started out on tenuous terms. We don’t know each other’s little habits, and we don’t entirely trust each other yet. That will take time. It will take the experiencing of good times and bad, sickness and health, laughter and tears. I’m sure we will have words, vented in momentary anger. There will probably be some close calls where my car comes through for me. There always are. I will probably spend anxious moments in a repair shop, praying for its recovery. Car owners always do. Right now, it’s all new car smell and fears about that first scratch. I eagerly await the time when we can relax and be comfortable together.

I may be too emotionally wrapped up in my vehicles. Well—you know how it is.

I can’t be the only writer who sees the creative possibilities of the Trump habitation of the White House. The entire situation is set up perfectly for a sit-com, with an arrogant, blustering, slightly out-of-it father as president, a gorgeous but completely unaware 3^rd trophy wife, a bevy of ex-wives constantly stopping in on the White House making demands, three bumbling adult kids doing all they can to profit off their father’s fame and position, a self-serving son-in-law, and a little boy, the latest child and pampered offspring of the president, who is so privileged he cannot even begin to fathom the importance of his father’s decision on the people of the country. The mix is rich in comic possibilities.

I can see it providing week after week of comic situations as the outside world gradually spirals down into an abyss of chaos and destruction (mentioned as side info in ordinary conversation). Kind of a dark comedy. Here’s just a sampling of the possible episodes:

Episode 1

Trump has trouble finding his way through the White House. His wife can’t find her way either and limits herself to two adjacent rooms. Trump’s adult kids have to talk him through, room-by-room, to get him from one meeting to another. Trump mishears the instructions and finds himself in closet after closet. Merriment ensues.

Episode 2

Melania tries to settle into her role as 1^st Lady. However, she keeps gets phone calls, emails and texts from old boyfriends blackmailing her with sex tapes & porn videos. She sells White House decorations to buy them off. Trump comes into rooms, wondering what happened to that portrait of Lincoln that used to be on the wall, etc. Son-in-law keeps shoving executive orders that profit only him in front of Trump to sign.

Episode 3

The three adult Trump kids tear through the White House, looking through closets, desks and cupboards looking for objects that can be sold for profit. The oldest boy is constantly on his phone, doing deals with foreign leaders and corporate heads that profit himself. He is constantly interrupted by his father’s calls for help finding his way around the White House. In between conversations between the adult kids and hunting for saleable items, the daughter takes continuous calls from her children’s nanny.

Episode 4

The Trump ex-wives descend on the White House, demanding access to state events and access to perks of the executive office. They make themselves at home in the White House, to Trump’s consternation and the visible fury of Melania, whom the ex-wives treat with complete contempt. Trump’s adult kids try to help him get the ex-wives out but are put in their place by the matrons. The lesser-known adult child of one of his exes makes an appearance, but Trump has no idea who she is.

Episode 5

Trump’s young son tries to get comfortable with life in the White House. The Secret Service agents become his closest friends. He bumbles into important meetings, where his father asks him for his help and advice on crucial world issues. The child occasionally finds his father wandering around and has to lead him back to the private quarters of the White House. The boy takes a few calls from world leaders while waiting for his father to find his way to the Oval Office.

These are just the bare bones of the most obvious story lines. Surely, you yourself could think of story lines that would make plausible episode in the sit-com that is Trump Goes to the White House. 

Maybe someone with artistic talent can set up a graphic novel on the subject, with weekly installments based ongoing, real life events. I’m sure we will all be needing the comic relief as long as Trump holds the White House.