MOBILE, Alabama — The news is full of the coronavirus and Kabul, but meanwhile, in other disasters…
This, folks, is how things work with Gulf Coast hurricanes. Just two nights ago, weather forecasters were saying a tropical system near the Caribbean looked headed to south Texas, three full states away from us, and probably would remain a mild tropical storm. Twelve hours later, the track and predicted intensity changed, far eastward to Louisiana or even Mississippi, with the storm projected to be a strong Category 2 Hurricane, or even Category 3. And instead of dawdling, it was moving fast. We’re talking Sunday morning landfall.
And I was supposed to be driving two hours west to New Orleans this weekend to see some friends and see a Saints’ game.
As Scooby-Doo would say, ruh-roh!
The news kept worsening. Now, this thing could be a monster. “Hurricane Ida could be close to Cat 4, dump 20 inches of rain in southeast Louisiana,” says the headline on the NOLA.com breaking-news email. The forecast “cone” extends eastward almost to the Alabama state line.
Therefore, spring, or maybe stumble, into a semblance of action. Put the Saints’ tickets up for sale on the cheap on Seat Geek. (As if!) Cancel three different plans in the Crescent City. Call the relatives on the Mississippi Coast to say, hey, we have a spare bedroom if they need to evacuate. Call the in-laws to offer help battening down the hatches for the house right on Mobile Bay, in case the track shifts even further eastward. Call the neighbors who don’t have a generator: “Hey, if your freezer goes out, we have space in ours!”
Oh, yeah — the generator! We got a great one after, in consecutive summers, Hurricane Ivan knocked out our power for nine days, and then Katrina tagged us for seven. After that, we vowed “never again” and ponied up. But didn’t I notice just last week that the machine’s “time for service” yellow light was on? Oh boy — text the repair specialist! Amazingly, he can send over a technician today. OK, I’ll work from home.
Technician arrives. Really knows his stuff. Hmm, there’s actually too much oil. And maybe the battery is weak. (Who knew generators have batteries?) More tools emerge, more panels come off the machine.
A half-hour later: Whew! Ironically, the only thing wrong with the generator is the light that warns there may be something wrong with the generator. Some sort of circuitry is dead, so the light can’t be turned off. But everything else is hunky-dory. Then again, says the technician, if the light goes red, then it’s time to panic. Unless that proves to be just busted circuitry, too. It’s like another cone of uncertainty, forever shifting toward me.
So now, back to work, but keep the weather alerts on. If the forecaster’s cone moves east again, then it’ll mean in come the flowerpots, put the lawn chairs in the shed, take down the bird feeders, gas up the car, check all the supplies. (Yeah, we have enough paper towels, but should we restock the bourbon?)
And all for a storm that two nights ago was a nothing burger, and that likely will still avoid us (even if not sparing star-crossed New Orleans) except for some of those pesky “outer bands.”
At least we on the Gulf get warnings, even if our warning lights are sometimes mistaken. California, contrarily, gets earthquakes from the blue. A flock of birds can force a plane into the Hudson River. Donald Trump can lead his family down an escalator. Unlike those, our Gulf Coast disasters call ahead for reservations. And at least we won’t need to wear those dratted masks.
