It’s Wednesday, August 30, 2023 at 7:14pm and I am sitting on my screened-in porch writing this column.
I am over-looking my 100-year-old oak trees just a few yards from where I sit. Birds are chirping. The early evening sky is a startling blue. And sounds of traffic just beyond my walled yard intermittently break my concentration – reminding me that things are rapidly returning to normal.
Yesterday my husband and I were notified that we were in a mandatory evacuation zone due to an impending hurricane. And that we must find safe shelter somewhere else. Local news stations were reporting that the central portion of the West Coast of Florida could be in the direct path of Hurricane Idalia.
And that’s precisely where we reside.
We know the drill:
Remove all plants and furniture from our three porches.
Dump the irreplaceable, bound copies of newspapers I have written for in the past into our washer and dryer for safe keeping.
Grab some cash.
Fill-up the car with gas.
Pack-up our prescription meds, a battery-operated radio, a few perishables, a change of clothes, the dog and his food and his bed.
Text our kids.
Off we go to the home of my niece and her husband, miles from any body of water.
Once again, we have left our house not knowing what will still be standing once we return. The possibility of high winds or an errant tornado screeching through our yard, felling our huge oak trees, smashing through our house, is uppermost in my mind.
How many times can we dodge a direct hit?
And, once again, it looks like a direct hit is likely.
Hurricane Idalia comes whipping up the coast, churning up the very warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. At first, it seems like it IS heading straight toward Tampa, where we live. Then… it turns northeast and we breathe a sigh of relief.
Though safely situated in my niece’s home, my anxiety returns. I am glued to the local TV station until 3 in the morning, avidly watching as the newscasters and roving reporters profile the different communities hugging the coast as Idelia unleashes her wrath.
Rising water. Horrible winds. Pelting rain. Power outages. Storm surges.
In mid-afternoon, we get the all-clear to come back to our neighborhood. The water has receded back into the Bay – just two blocks away. My husband and I nervously walk our property.
The beach towels we had haphazardly stuffed around the double front doors are still dry. Our huge, old oak trees are still gallantly standing – unlike the one torn in half and felled to the ground at the Florida governor’s mansion in Tallahasseee. Our windows aren’t punctured. Our screens not torn. Debris is scarce.
We proceed to put our three porches and patio back together. Having stashed most of the tables, plant stands, plants, and wicker furniture in our family room and living room, we hurriedly start restoring order in our fevered quest for normalcy.
And then, I pause. I am exhausted, sweaty, and thirsty. I decide to not only restore order, but to re-configure the contents of my screened porch off the family room. A sane person would wait until the next day. Not me. I begin:
Eliminate half the plants previously crowding the porch
Forget putting back the ottomans we never use
Replace the three swivel chairs with my wicker couch from the patio
Cut down on the clutter of candles, pine cones and seashells crowding out the round table top in the corner
I create a space shouting “Serenity”
I create a space to match the growing presence of gratefulness and relief washing over me.
I’m paying tribute to how lucky we are to live in a beautiful area.
I’m paying tribute to once more being spared the terror of Mother Nature’s random forces.
I’m being mindful of those less fortunate among us who won’t be going to bed tonight with an intact, dry, livable house – much less a newly reconstituted screened in porch overlooking those simply marvelous oak trees.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor