September 21, 2005
Friends and colleagues:
The transfer of the flag is fast upon me. It is 12:45 p.m. Tuesday as Hurricane Rita slips between Florida and Cuba into the warm and welcoming waters of the Gulf. It is too early to tell when or where she will come ashore like a steriod-drunk Ursula Andress emerging from the blue and tranquil Caribbean waters in "Dr. No."
The ghosts of bottled water and potato chips haunt store shelves thanks to stupid people who will soon be begging through parched and swollen lips for a drop of liquid to quench their agonizing thirst. And, they'll pay gladly for it with unopened bags of brine-soaked chips. Indeed.
Unable to find water and chips last night, I drove to the nearest filling station, a Murphy's next to the Wal-Mart across the street from the Target that had no snacks and very few containers. About 20 vehicles waited in lines that snaked crazily across the parking lot. The pumps worked slowly, at the just the right pace to keep waiting drivers edgy and cranky as they watched other drivers with Grinch-like sneers fill their 50-gallon tanks that will run dry before theymake it across the bridge.
Plastic bags adorn the gaspump nozzels at stations up and down the streets of my city. And I just burned two gallons of gas driving into Houston.
I am sitting in my office, which is in the middle of a fortress, surrounded by brick walls and cement blocks. A fine example of Depression-era construction. My office is more than 20 feet above ground and should survive anything short of a small nuclear blast from the parking lot below. Or so I hope, because I have finished tranferring 5 crates of prints and pictures taken from the walls of my house, which is less than a mile as the egret flies from Galveston Bay, an inviting target for Rita's evil vagaries.
Tonight and tomorrow I will begin to place clothing and other items into garbage bags, all the while keeping one eye on the Weather Channel and the other eye on various computer models available on the Web. The latest prediction calls for Rita to crash ashore late Friday, instead of early Saturday, which alters my evacuation plans. My older daughter Hill and her husband will make their way to the Texas Hill Country to stay at his folks' place, assuming she can tear herself away from her law classes. My wife remains safely sheltered in place in Utah, home to Katrina evacuees.
Yesterday, I planned to escape sometime Wednesday. This morning's predictions allowed me to think about hitting the road Thursday with my 16-year old daughter and our two-car-and-a-cat caravan. Now, forecasters show Rita striking farther south along the Texas coast, but earlier than first thought. So, I still don't have a departure date.
But I will think about that later. Right now, I have to wade through the final draft of the Annual Report, due back tomorrow, and in which I found four errors in the first sentence. This will not be pretty.
And neither will Rita.
Must sign off for now. Sporadic updates coming.
Friends and Colleagues:
5:30 a.m.Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Mandatory evacuation of Galveston Island begins in a few minutes, with the rolling evacuation of the county to follow and continue through tomorrow, our scheduled evacuation time.
Weird scenes last night. I had to return some DVDs at Blockbuster and pick up a prescription at Kroger. Sitting at the Kroger interesection, I counted more than 100 vehicles going north, south, east, and west. As I said, weird considering north is the way out of danger.
There is no gasoline. Water sometimes does not make it to the shelves, going straight from the stocker to the evacuee's shopping cart.
We finished loading the cars around 11 p.m. Taking clothes, toiletries, photographs and other items collected over the years. The magnitude of what we are about to do did not sink in until a few minutes ago as I watched the morning weather. Hurricane Rita is now a Catagory 3 and expected to be at least a Cat 4 by the time it hits Texas. The lastest prediction has her coming ashore down the coast, but not far enough to keep us out of trouble.
She comes like the invading army of the Dark Lord. Citizens who can, flee before the onslaught. First comes a tidal surge that could cover this entire area with 20 feet of sea water, in the worst-case scenario. Three to five feet more likely for us. Next comes the wind to soften up those left behind, including their homes and shelters. And then the body of the assault, accompanied by tornadoes. That's where our dangers come from. The dirty side of the storm. Floods, wind, twisters.
I went to sleep last night with the sounds of neighbors boarding their doors and windows. We did not do this. We did not have measurements, nor the means to cut, transport, and hang the plywood, particularly over the second-story windows. It's a roll of the dice.
My luck has not been so good over the last 12 months, and this is just the latest example. At least my daughter Shade and I had the chance to take with us what we could stuff into our vehicles.
I can only remember one other occasion when I have felt as powerless and in such a state of dispair, moving through the fog blindly. And that was about six months ago when Sharon told me she was getting a divorce and moving to Utah. Well, she didn't get the divorce, but she did move to Utah, so there is hope with Rita, although I'm not sure how much longer I can count on the generosity of females.
School buses from the district's bus barn lined up with a police escort last night, heading to Galveston. Those buses are ready this morning to take about 2,500 residents off of the island and to shelters in Huntsville. New Orleans' mayor may have helped a populace after all.
Time to leave. Time to take a walk through the house to see if there is anything that needs to be stuffed into the back of our vehicles. Time to take what may be a last look of my home. Time to stop at the altar, whose icons I could not pack, and try to reconnect, ask forgiveness, and plead for protection for my home and my family and those joining our flight. And those staying behind, guarding our backs.
It is said there are no atheists in a foxhole. It is also true for those who flee an unstoppable, destructive force.
Now I know what our writers feel like when they submit their work for a final edit. My copy of the Annual Report is on the front floor of my vehicle. I'll get to it later today, but there may not be anyone to take my notes.
Vaya con queso, mis amigos.
