The sunlight shines on darkness

Us: Still here
It: Long gone

Monday dawned bright and beautiful here on the Western Edge, but what the light revealed was nothing but.

We live in a semi-affluent subdivision on high ground, not terribly far from the Alafia River. Less than one mile away from my house, across the street from my children's school, is a slightly different world. Battered mailboxes stand at the top of long gravel driveways, which lead through groves of tall oak and cypress trees down to several erratically placed mobile homes. Under normal circumstances, you can't see these trailers for the trees, which is the way these folks want iit, and I'm sure it's exactly the way the damn homeowner's association in my neighborhood would want it.

Frances peeled back the cover on this alcove. The Alafia went over its banks this morning, and took a lot of those trees and most of those homes with it.

At 7:30 this morning, as I was driving to work, I saw a couple of 50-ish men, shirtless, scratching their chins. They didn't seem to be talking to each other; they were just looking down the driveway at what was once theirs. Too stunned to get pissed, powerless to do anything about it. A woman, near tears, sloshed through the ditch to come talk to these men. News crews were parked on the side of the main road, amid the Granadas and Skylarks and late-'70s Chevy trucks, $500 heaps that these folks had desperately moved to higher ground before the river took them, too.

As the traffic inched by, partly because of the water crossing the road and partly because we were gawking, while the newspeople, raincoated (for no reason) and coiffed, pointed and filmed and talked, I saw a woman in a tank top and shorts struggle to light a cigarette in the breeze. She finally got her smoke lit, and, frustrated, threw the lighter into a puddle, probably without thinking at that moment that she's not going to be able to reach into the cabinet above her refrigerator and get another one.

We have everything and didn't lose any of it. They have little and just lost what they had. I'm not apologizing for our good fortune, but something about it just doesn't seem fair.

The Red Cross takes donations online or over the phone at 1-800-HELP-NOW.

These folks don't really need your old clothes or bottles of water or non-perishables or teddy bears. They need money. Those people across the street need it, and people down in Charlotte and Desoto and Hardee and Polk counties still need it from the damage Charley did.

---

Back at the last storm, I ragged a little bit on the local media. Having been dealt only a glancing blow from Charley, we thought that they might have overdone it a little bit.

But man, they came through on Frances, and then some.

We didn't miss a day of the Tampa Tribune. The local television stations were on the air for more than 60 hours, keeping us updated on what was going on elsewhere while all we could see was our backyard. The forecasts were frighteningly accurate, and the pictures were stunning.

You could tell the TV folks were getting a little bit ragged by last night. They certainly could be excused for that; they basically gave them enough time to change their clothes and their makeup before trotting them back out to the desk. They got a little break for regular programming Monday nght before going on at 11, and by then, it was obvious that the producer was saying one thing and the anchor was hearing, "mhjtib atj;i34l dfgkldf."

My folded-up newspaper hat is off to them. They did a hell of a job.

Now if only they could find a way to get their Super Double Pinpoint Neighborhood Master Blaster Doppler to steer Ivan into open water ...

Too much of a good thing

Us: Ain't going nowhere
It: Feeling the same way, apparently

Tornado warning currently in effect for our county. The storm is spouting off these tiny little tornadoes that are basically not much more than an annoyance, unless you're outside. Which, of course, we aren't.

I'm sure at some point we had hoped for something along the lines of, "Wouldn't it be nice if we could all have a few days together, here at home, where nobody had any place to go?" Well, it apparently would have been nice if we hadn't been forced t do so. The Old Daughter is currently repeating, "There's nothing to do," over and over. The younger kids are at each other's throats. The Wife is near dementia. I'm trying to take cover, not from Frances, but from them.

A neighbor had scheduled a party for this afternoon. We're going, because it's within walking distance, and because if we don't get a change of scenery, we're all going to go insane. Apparently that's the case on the other end, too. "You'd better show up," the neighbor said, "because if my kids don't get someone to play with soon, I'm going to bust a gasket. Besides, we have all this food ... "

I could not be happier that my family is safe, and sound, and that we haven't lost power. We've suffered no significant damage (so far, anyway.) It's been great to be together. I'm pretty sure, however, that after 48 hours of this togetherness, we're ready to share the love with someone else. We're going to a party, and no damn tropical storm is going to stop us.

The guest who stayed too long

Us: Still here
It: Somewhere in the Gulf

Frances apparently has a very wide ass. It's sashayed to the right just enough to continue to cause us problems.

The tottering privacy fence has come down. We've lost another panel on our pool screen. We're currently under a tornado warning as the southeastern "feeder bands" continue to feed on the Western Edge.

It's a good time to not be a television reporter on the Western Edge. Those poor people have been worked to death over the last three days. The desk anchors appear to be getting just enough of a break to go change clothes. The meteorologists are all on camera at the same time. That doesn't seem to be a good use of resources, to me.

The headline on the front page of the Tampa Tribune: SECOND WIND.

G'bye, Frances

Us: 27.88 N, 82.28 W
It: 28.0 N, 82.2 W

We're seeing Frances' taillights as it makes its way out to the Gulf, where it likely will re-strengthen and menace the Panhandle at some point in the next day or two.

A quick walk through the neighborhood shows a lot of leaves and sticks and stuff scattereda about. The storm drain is being worked to the max. The sinkhole across the street from the neighborhood park, home to some species of amphibian, is buzzing like a chainsaw. A mobile home in the rural area one block over from our subdivision suffered very minor damage to an awning.

The damage to our pool screen stands at two panels; pretty minor, but it's at the exact point where we won't be able to fix it ourselves. The tottering privacy fence is still up, but it's going to need to be reinforced before we can let the dogs out.

We never lost power, but we're apparently among the lucky ones. The Wife is venturing out to buy milk, but has been thwarted in her quest so far because none of the area grocery stores have power.

In a weird twist, we're under a new hurricane warning. Because the storm is headed out into the Gulf and expected to regenerate, we're expecting to receive some bad weather courtesy of Frances' ass end, probably overnight tonight.

This was the first time, in five years of living in Florida, that the center of a hurricane passed directly over my head. Our previous time in Florida (interrupted by three years in Texas) was during a time of light tropical activity. I was mildly surprised by a few things:

We expected to see more rain. I don't think we saw anything that we'd categorize as more than a light rainstorm. It was constant, however. It has filled the pool to the very top.

Hurricanes are not accompanied by lightning and thunder, unlike tornadoes in my native Midwest.

Hearing the wind before you feel it is a little weird. We were outside for a few of the higher gusts (probably around 70-75 mph), and you heard it well before you felt it. Kind of spooky.

Bottom line: We're OK. All our neighbors are OK. Our damage is minimal. We're lucky compared to some people in our area. We're going to count our blessings and hope we stay out of the way of the next one.

The official 2 p.m. update

Us: 27.88 N, 82.28 W
It (as of 2 p.m. EDT): 27.9 N, 81.7 W

We still have power, and we're not seeing ferocious sustained wind. The gusts are pretty nasty, though. The eye is about an hour away.

It was originally supposed to have been downgraded to a tropical storm by now, but officially, it's still a Category 1 hurricane.

It's here

Us: 27.88 N, 82.28 W
It: Right over our heads

Thanks to a Blogger server hiccup, somewhere in California, we're delayed on updates.

It's become very dark at 1:51 p.m. Our pool screen has been ripped and is flapping by the top of the frame. The privacy fence is still standing, but it's still leaning.

The worst of the storm, according to radar, is coming right up State Road 60 toward our vantage point. We're seeing very heavy rain -- not the sideways rain; it's still coming straight down.

Lots of small tree debris in front of our house.

Our county's Emergency Operations Center mouthpiece has just come on TV. She's basically telling people it's too late to do anything differently. "What I want to say now is, if you haven't made that decison already and gotten to your shelter, do not leave your home now. We are at that point of the storm were we've actually pulled our people off the highways -- our police officers are in, our rescue people are in. The weather at this point requires that we look out for their safety as we have been looking out for the safety of all our residents."

Then there's my needs

Us: Same as before
It: Same as before, pretty much

I so wish I had a hand-held anenometer.

Battling the wind, and boredom

Us: 27.88 N, 82.28 W
It: 27.7 N, 81.2 W

The privacy fence on the south side of our backyard is starting to get a bit shaky. The pool screen has a minor breach. Leaves and twigs are scattered about on the street in front of our house. Light rain is being buffeted by 40 mph winds.

Other than that, not much is happening here at 27.88/82.28. The Mini-Humans -- the Old Daughter, 10, the Boy, 5, and the Young Daughter, 3 -- are tired of watching the 24-Hour Doppler on TV. They want to watch Toy Story.

At some point, we're going to have to come up with something for them to do. This weather is going to continue on this pace pretty much all day and well into the evening -- light rain and moderate wind, with occasional bursts from a squall.

We're told that 60,000 in Hillsborough County are already without power -- including one of the largest shelters. That's gonna get ugly.

Wake-up call

Our position: 27.88 N, 82.28 W
Frances' position (as of 5 a.m. EDT Sunday): 27.3 N, 80.7 W, just east of Lake Okeechobee

We awakened at about 7 a.m. to the sounds of 50 mph winds. We're about to lose our pool screen.

The Wife stood on the pool deck for a minute and surveyed the situation from our backyard. "That tree's coming down," she said, pointing to a large oak on the other side of our back fence. "And that tree's coming down, and that one's going to end up in the pool ... "

Even weirder: You can hear the wind before you feel it; you can hear it coming in the distance.

The eye is now plotted to go directly over our house. We'll update as power allows.

Late Night with Hurricane Frances

Our position: 27.88 N, 82.28 W
Frances' position (as of 11 p.m. EDT): 27.1 N, 79.7 W
Tornado warning in effect for the county to our east

The western portion of the eyewall has come ashore on the east coast. We're starting to see video out of the West Palm Beach area and other east coast outposts, showing the sideways rain and palm trees whipping to and fro.

About 7 p.m., with a light drizzle falling outside our windows, we thought it might be a good idea to take the kids to the neighborhood Chick-Fil-A and let them burn off some energy in the indoor play area before putting them to bed. We flipped the radio to the local news mouthpiece, which has been doing wall-to-wall hurricane coverage since late last night. The guy on the radio was in full War of the Worlds mode, telling of death and destruction and death and stuff, headed right for us.

One side of my brain said, "Settle down, Beavis." The other side of my brain said, "Let's just go through the drive-through and go home."

The other side won. The activity level in eastern Hillsborough County looked only slightly less than normal for a Saturday evening, but with the rapidly greening sky and the occasional mild gust of wind, it just seemed a little eerie. We took our Chick-Fil-A home and put the kids to bed.

Now we're debating whether one of us should stay up overnight and listen for tornadoes. We have no tornado sirens in Florida; the sound of the freight train likely wouldn't wake us up before windows started breaking.

We're told the serious bad weather should begin sometime around 8 a.m. Sunday. It's raining pretty hard now, but the winds are relatively calm. We'll be sleeping with one ear open.

An evening with Frances

Our position: 27.88 N, 82.28 W
Frances' position (as of 5 p.m. EDT): 26.9 N, 79.3 W
Tropical Storm Warning issued for our county

The Wife went out at 5 p.m. to get dog food. She called about half an hour later: "I've been injured!" she declared. "A flying tree branch just grazed my arm!"

We're still trying to have a little bit of fun with this, but it appears the fun is going to be subsiding soon. A couple of rain bands, each larger and louder than the previous, have blown through. It still hasn't been anything more severe than the average afternoon Florida thunderstorm, but the fact that they're increasing in intensity each time through doesn't bode well.

The Wife observed in her trip to the grocery store -- a place that was still wildly crowded as afternoon became evening -- that some stuff had already started to blow down. "If we get hours of 50 mph winds," says the woman who's been pooh-poohing this whole thing vehemently since the news stations began playing their "You're All Going to Die" music, "this could be a real mess."

It certainly could be. The longer the thing sits out there on the fringe of the Edge, the stronger it's going to get.

Lessons learned

Our location: 27.88 N, 82.28 W
Frances' location (as of 2 p.m. EDT): 26.9 N, 79.0 W.

I'm feeling bad for these TV guys, who are having to say the same things repeatedly again. "It's an incredibly slow moving storm ... " "It's an incredibly slow-moving storm" ... " "It's an incredibly slow moving storm" ... which means there's nothing new to report.

Some lessons were learned from three weeks ago, however:

--More than 2.5 million people have been ordered to evacuate. However, they're being told to stay close to home, preferably in a higher-level area of their home county. Traffic has been bad, but it hasn't yet been the nightmare that it could have been with an evacuation of that magnitude.
--The TV folks are being careful to remind people to not focus on the path, but on the wider cone of the margin of error. This lesson is sticking tight, given that we all focused on Charley's forecast path right up until the second it changed.

The thing that we're working against now is hurricane fatigue. Being able to plan this far out for a disaster means that people are now sitting in shelters with nothing happening. "Shelters are for emergencies," one woman told The Miami Herald as she left a shelter, against the advice of local authorities. People are going to be too drained from the pre-math to deal with the aftermath, if there is an aftermath.

Hi, Fran

Our position: 27.88 N, 82.28 W
Frances' position (as of 11 a.m. EDT): 26.9 N, 78.8 W.
Tropical storm watch in effect for our county

The rain just started. Buckets and buckets of rain. It's a little windy, too. But I'm seeing rain like I've never seen.

This is what they call a "feeder band." It's spinning off to the north and west of Frances, which is currently "drifting" in the Atlantic. They can't even assign a miles-per-hour speed to the thing, because it's moving so slow.

And in the time it took me to type this, it stopped raining. And now the sun is out.

However, that was only a preview, they say.

The pre-math, continued

Our location: 27.88 N, 82.28 W
Frances' location (as of 8 a.m. EDT Saturday): 26.7 N, 78.4 W

The storm isn't moving much, which I'm sure is causing great frustration and consternation among refugees who are taking shelter in hotels, schools and various other places. The entire state (except for a few Panhandle counties and the Jacksonville area) is basically at a standstill, looking east and waiting for the ... well, for whatever it is that's going to hit us.

The problem with the entire state being at a standstill is that it greatly restricts our ability to do anything. Traffic is awful, even over here on the Western Edge where nothing is happening, because of the stream of evacuees headed this way. The grocery stores are already out of everything again, and the gas stations have been tapped out. We almost feel somewhat ostracized because we're not participating in the widespread panic.

But it's hard for us to generate panic when we're not quite sure about what we should be panicking.

The Sarasota Herald Tribune's web site put it best: "Whatever you've heard about Hurricane Frances' upcoming assault on southwest Florida, don't bet on it." This exercise is further proof that despite all the technological advances and the ability to bring up-to-the-second updates every other second, you're still dealing with a natural phenomenon, and natural phenomenons tend to defy man's best efforts to take control of them.

Meanwhile, here on the west side, it's beautiful. The kids are in the pool again. We're calmly doing things that need to be done while we still have electricity, just in case. It would suck to have this pile of laundry here tomorrow if the power was out.

The pre-math

Our location: 27.88 N, 82.28 W
Center of Frances: 25.3 N, 76.4 W as of 8 a.m. EDT

Hurricanes are somewhat unique among natural disasters, in that you get several days of warning. That way, you can panic before the damn thing even hits.

News reports are telling of chaos in the Orlando area, of testy Home Depot customers and 50-mile traffic jams on Florida's Turnpike and all manner of road rage and general bad will toward our fellow man. News reports are telling of fear along the east coast barrier islands, of resignation in the inland counties hardest hit by Charley three weeks ago, of travelers stranded and confused.

Here at 27.88/82.28, it's a beautiful late summer day. The kids, out of school because the governor wanted our school buildings as shelters, are in the pool. We're kind of tying and battening and preparing, but we are understandably a bit blase because we went through this exercise three weeks ago for what turned out to be a minor rain event, for us, anyway.

And I'll concede that if the storm does reach anything beyond "minor rain event," we're woefully unprepared. We've done the bare minimum that one would do to prepare for a catastrophic hurricane. We have a few gallons of water, a few batteries left over from the Charley scare, a 12-pack of Bud Light, five bags of ice, $390 in cash, a full tank of gas in one car, and a typical grocery load. If we're without power for more than a day or two, we're screwed.

"It's bigger than Charley ... " "It's bigger than Andrew ... " "It's bigger than Missouri."

All that might be true. But the hour-by-hour reports of its fluctuation are as worthless as the hour-by-hour reports from the stock market. Nothing matters until tomorrow.