I’m home. I’m safe. Thank God for that — and, in a strange way, I’ve a “thank you” or two for Hurricane Irma.
People learn a bunch in a crisis, stuff they’d rather not learn, but learn, they must . . . In this case, the teacher was Irma, lecturing us with wind and water as she spent her potent strength: Cat 5–4–3–2–1.
Irma was a wobbly “One” by the time she smacked my house — like an aging boxer in the 14th round of a 15-rounder, sapped of strength and focus. She left behind broken branches, downed power lines, flooded streets and more. She left behind memories — good, bad and ugly.
Since 1971, when I came to Florida, I’ve survived the nibbling edge of a number of ’canes, as well as a direct hit by the infamous “Storm With No Name” — a Clint Eastwood-like weather configuration that bopped Tampa Bay on the nose, as if to say, “You’ve got to ask yourself a question: ‘do I feel lucky?’ Well, do ya, punk?”
We didn’t then; we don’t now.
The reason: For Tampa-St. Petersburg, Irma was not “The Big One.” It was a mere dress rehearsal. I pray I’m not around when that future, mega-storm scores a direct hit. No way. Think I might just move. My cousin Bobby says Sedona is nice this time of year. I plan to Google it when I finish this piece.
Other thoughts — other things: Click here.
