Michael Rode His Boat Ashore
Last week, the news felt like some sort of extended posthumous birthday notification for my dad. I watched as Michael became a hurricane on Monday — the day before what would have been my dad’s 63rd birthday. Shaking my head, I had to laugh a little as the forecasts for Tuesday grew more dire. Of course. The hurricane discussions prior to landfall would have expanded his already large head such that fitting through doors would have been difficult.
Satellite images of Michael’s evolution on Tuesday night were, in a word, jaw-dropping
-Bob Henson, Wunderground
Unfortunately, much like my father, this hurricane just didn’t know when to stop.
My dad was hyperbole personified. When within his comfort zone, he wanted to be the loudest person in the room. He would put on ridiculous Halloween masks, blow into a didgeridoo, and lead the dogs (and sometimes grandchildren) on marching parades through the house.
He would tell tall tales of fighting Superman or our secret sister, beheaded (and I guess reheaded) by the CIA and sent to live in Australia. The thing is — he would never, ever admit they weren’t true, no matter how old we got, no matter how unbelievable the story.
One of my his favorite quotes was, “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition,” usually said while suddenly poking us or tickling us until we couldn’t breathe. I learned early to listen intently when walking through a dark house, because he could be lurking in a corner ready to jump out, fingers wiggling, to scare us. He’d laugh and laugh. The more it frightened us, the more humorous he found the whole situation.
So it was with the same hesitancy and skepticism that I eyed Hurricane Michael, lurking in the Gulf. I love hurricanes. I loved my dad. But I also know that sometimes you have to watch out for them. Much like the Ferengi, who my dad taught me to never trust.
He lived this large life within the confines of New Bern, NC. On the occasion he could be persuaded to drive west on highway 70, he wouldn’t stay long. Unless there were extenuating circumstances, it was rare for him to visit for more than a few hours, spending more time driving than staying still. “Well, I guess I need to get home and let the dogs out,” he’d sigh. Staying still was not something he was good at, in general — he just usually kept his movement close to home.
But rest easy, this hurricane won’t stay around long. It will need to head home to let the dogs out.
– My sister
It was true, of course. Hurricane Michael had to be bigger, stronger, louder than the others, but marching through quickly and leaving everyone wondering what the hell just happened. Also, my dad never really liked Florida very much, having lived there for a hot minute as a kid.
Everyone in the triangle was caught off guard by then-Tropical Storm Michael. We had all prepared for Florence, and other than one day of flooding didn’t have much to show for it. But Michael stomped through and left trees in living rooms. My dad always made fun of the triangle for the constant mention of Hurricane Fran. I suspect, in hurricane form, that he wanted to be remembered and talked about for a generation. Didn’t quite get that from us in central NC, but damn sure got it in general.
And that’s getting more difficult to do in the era of fast-moving 24-hour globalized news cycles and climate change.
I think there is some normalization of disasters now. Once the active disaster is over, the news stops covering it. Once the water recedes. Once the fires stop burning. Once the search and rescue missions are complete. Individual businesses and nonprofits continue to collect supplies, but the drumbeat of collective life has already moved on to the next tragedy.
For those in affected areas, it takes longer and we have to settle with an unanticipated new normal (which is a state of being I’ve become far too familiar with in the last few years).
New Bern, so recently the center of national news, has already found its place behind a line of breaking news more current than the devastating flooding of a month ago.
Hurricane Michael did get in one last parting shot — knocking a tree down onto a fence in my mom’s backyard. When my mom offered my dad’s poke boat to the neighbors for helping to fix the fence, they walked down to the lake only to discover that the boat must have floated away during Florence — I suspect Michael wanted the credit.
Tell me how
My Father passed away
Was he like a feather in a hurricane
– Jump Little Children, White Buffalo
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