Tuesday, September 3, 2019


Yesterday was the anniversary of one of the most devastating hurricanes in history, the 1936 Labor Day Hurricane in the Florida Keys.  It killed over 400 people, most of them vets working on constructing the bridges and railroad.  I haven't seen any reports about this during the Dorian tragedy. Only two states participated in any rescue activity for these men.  Hemingway was among those who helped.

Here, people vacillate between joy and terror depending on what comes out of the hurricane center's updates every four hours.  There are group texts among friends and co-workers.  Some are funny, some cavalier.  All are edgy.

The hurricane doesn't move.  It just sits on top of the Bahama Islands.  I can't imagine what it is like there for those who did not evacuate.

I don't think I will experience much more than wind and rain where I am, perhaps some power outage.  But we don't know.  One cannot quite relax and be happy.

This is taking forever.  I would like to think about other things again.  I'd like to moan about all the photographs I have not taken or some other usual whine.

I promise, though, that I will go on a diet when this is all over.  There have been too many days of lying about eating and drinking.  Ili and I are getting plump on hurricane survival calories.

Like the president, we all are waiting for Dorian to hit Alabama.

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