Blog #179

 Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor HURRICANE shall stay this courier from the swift completion of his appointed blog.  We’ve come home to St. Louis now and the quotidian reality of gun violence, Covid and children without schools. Hurricane Isaias was frightening, but only a temporary dip in an otherwise glorious week on Bald Head Island.

The Island hierarchy had bitten their sand-filled fingernails all weekend about whether to evacuate the island or not.  They decided against it.  Monday was a beautiful day until Hurricane Isaias struck a little after 7:00 p.m.  We sat on the porch watching the wind and rain – me, Carol, two daughters, two sons-in-law, six grandchildren and two dogs.  At 8:00, the power went out.  By 10:00 we had been forced inside to hunker and wait it out.  It rained all night – HARD!  You’ve heard of raining cats and dogs?  Well, this was raining Fords and Ferraris.  Was it frightening?  Well, not as frightening as being locked in a room with Joy Behar, but pretty scary nonetheless.

We managed to sleep, and in the morning awoke to a beautiful, sunny day.  The power was restored by 11:00 a.m. and the crews began clearing the fallen trees and branches from the paths.  By 1:00, we were back on the beach enjoying perfect weather and an energetic surf.  Piece o’ cake, as they say.  Worrisome, nerve-wracking, dangerous, but thankfully brief.  Even the news that, during the night, a tornado had touched down only two blocks from our house didn’t slow us down. 

On Bald Head Island is a place called Frying Pan Shoals.  It is here that the warm Gulf Stream from the south smacks into the Atlantic waves from the east and drops its load of sand to make an 18-mile series of submerged sand bars in the shape of a frying pan.  The shoals have been so dangerous to shipping for centuries that the whole area is called Cape Fear.  From the tip of the island, you can walk a long distance on the sand bars and be hit by fierce warm waves on one side and strong cold waves on the other while standing in 6-8 inches of water.  It is a spectacular and unique experience.

As you stand out there, splashed by waves from two continents, it is interesting to realize that some of those drops of water landing on your knees may have been part of a rain-shower over the Amazon forest or have rolled off the back of a Blue Whale grazing krill off the coast of Antarctica.  Some droplets could have been drunk by George Washington or been part of a Triceratops’ spit.  This is what it’s like being inside my head.  I’ve warned you.  Some people have a train of thought; I have a train wreck!

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and staying busy.  I know some of you think our Weekly Word is going to be quotidian, but that was the Weekly Word in May.  Have you forgotten already?  It means daily or routine.  No, our word this week is krill which are tiny, shrimp-like crustaceans that live in the ocean.  Transparent, smaller than your thumb, they weigh less than an ounce, but all the krill in the ocean together weigh more than all the people on the planet.  A Blue Whale can eat about four tons of krill in a day.

This past Sunday, my North Carolina family, home from Bald Head, experienced the largest earthquake the state has had in almost a century.  So in the space of one week, they were in a hurricane, a tornado and an earthquake.  If I lived in North Carolina, I’d be moving up my hair appointments.  You don’t want the world to come to an end with your hair looking bad.

That daughter lives near Ft. Bragg, the largest U.S. Army base with a population of over 270,000 people.  It is the home of the 82^nd Airborne and the 75^th Ranger divisions.  When the earthquake hit, my daughter heard jars rattling in her kitchen and thought it was the regular bombing practice at Ft. Bragg.  That’s pretty spooky in itself, isn’t it?

When the house started shaking, my Mom

Said, “Children, you must remain calm.

“Come sit over here

“There’s nothing to fear

“I’m sure it was only a bomb.”

 

The fort is named after Braxton Bragg, a Confederate general, so I’m sure a name-change is being considered.  They’ll probably change it to Ft. Lollipop or Ft. Butterfly or something appropriately menacing to our enemies.

As you know, I often dwell on funerals and burial options.  Here are my latest thoughts.  Most people really don’t want to trudge out in the weather to visit an old grave in a depressing cemetery. We should bury our loved ones indoors, in a big warehouse, and then turn it into a bar.  Every night we could have a special memorial time called Sad Hour where we pay respects to Grandma while eating half-priced calamari.  Hey, that’s where I want to be when I’m gone.  At least I know Carol will be thinking of me over a chilled Chardonnay and a fried artichoke.  “C’mon, girls, I need a drink; let’s go visit what’s his name.”   And she could drink a toast to my memory while laying shrimp tails and empty mussel shells on my plaque.  We’ll call the place “Shots & Plots” or “Tears with Beers” or something goofy like that.  I told you I was warped.

I like the idea of people gathering over drinks and food and remembering their loved ones.  Things like:

 “Wasn’t Grandma terrific!”

“My Mom was such a good cook!”

“My Michael sure had a train-wreck for a brain.  Pass the horse radish.”

 Well, some memories are better than others.

 Message from Shakespeare:  Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear (All’s Well that Ends Well).  I don’t remember much about my last family except that when I broke my leg, they left me all alone at the front door of the animal shelter.  But now I’m the luckiest cat in the world.  Mom calls me Lucky Shaky Shakespeare.

Sorry if I didn’t make you laugh much today, but I knew you wanted to hear about our hurricane.  I’ll tickle your fancy next week, or any other part you prefer.  Stay well and count your blessings.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com