Well, it’s that time of year again. Hurricane season. And as a true Wilmingtonian, I’ve seen my share of a few. I grew up listening to my parents talk about Hazel every year. My father walked on what was left of Wrightsville Beach the day after Hazel. It happenned in 1954, three years before I was born, but it was the Most Significant Event of his life, so I have permanently incorporated stories and images of Hazel into my psyche. Of course, my mother probably tossed out all those historic beach photos years ago, but that’s another blog entirely.
Wilmington has a nick name of “Hurricans Alley”, y’all. It’s because we sit at the mouth of the Cape Fear River, which acts like a magnet to draw in the storms. In my adult life, I have my own memories of Dianna, Bertha, Fran, Bonnie, Floyd, Charley, and Ophelia. Thankfully, my memories are limited to nothing worse that flooded streets, up-rooted trees, missing shingles, picking up debris, sleepless nights, going without a decent cup of coffee, huddling around a battery powered radio, the noise of neighbor’s generators, the sticky humidity, and the thrilling moments when the power finally gets restored.
Hurricanes are always a good excuse to have a party, so most of us North Carolinians tend to celebrate, if you will, by getting plastered. After all, there’s not much else to do. Well, there’s sex, too. Alot of babies get started during hurricanes, but that, too, is another blog, y’all.
So it’s with trepidation and mixed emotions that I watch the weather channel bringing constant titillation about three more possible hurricanes. Hanna is getting geared up and my hubby says she is coming to bite us. (A reference to our Rottweiler, Hannah.) Then there’s Ike and Josephine, waiting in the wings. It’s enough to bring on a bonifide hot flash. I dread them, but at the same time, it’s kind of exciting. Nothing like a good old fashioned hurricane party, y’all.