Thar She Blows!

Crap.

It's hurricane season here in the good ol' Bahamas, the Lesser and Greater Antilles and any other specks of land between Africa and the west side of the Gulf of Mexico.  We are all at the mercy of Ma Nature.  I say "specks of land" because, considering the size of say, a continent, we island folk worry that the little bits of Earth that we exist upon will be sucked up out of the ocean and hurled into some unknown place, much like Auntie Em's house did.  Of course, landing in the Arctic would be a nice refreshing break from the oppressive heat right about now.

The first hurricane I ever experienced was Frances in early September, 2004.  She was a very slow moving, "take your time" kind of storm, island hopping to almost every "rock" in the Bahamas.  When she finally reached our island, she was a Category 2, moving westward at the brisk Bahamian pace of two miles per hour, with an eye of about seventy miles in diameter.  Slow and steady gets the job done, so they say.  There was about a six hour break during the eye of the storm where we could safely go outside, let the dogs out  - oh, they were so relieved to be relieved - and survey the damage.  Then the other side of the storm wall came.  Another twelve or so hours of howling winds.

Since I had never experienced a storm before and I had no idea what to expect, the days preceding it was spent making window shudders, stowing and securing everything and anything that could blow away, making drinking water, buying supplies - basically running around like a nervous wreck.  I was so hyped with adrenaline and trepidation that, as soon as the storm hit,  I promptly went comatose.

Several hours later - don't ask me how long it was, the entire ordeal is kind of a blur - my stepfather (a.k.a.Satan) wakes me up in a panic.  This time I know he isn't shitting me.  "She's getting sucked out of the door!", he says.  "Muwha?", I respond.  I jumped out of bed, ran upstairs and found my mother holding onto the hinged window that was attached to the remaining part of a door.  Had Mom been wearing an old fashioned hoop skirt, she would have been sucked up, spinning in the air like a whirling Dervish.  The wind was howling through the soffits like a freight train.  It was all too surreal.

I secured what was left of the door and plugged up the hole with some corrugated plastic sheeting we had lying around (we don't throw anything out), and pieces of plywood that were, thankfully, in the house.  After checking the other doors, I went back to sleep.

Almost two weeks had passed before we got power and the Internet back and just in time to see Jeanne pull a "Crazy Ivan", diverting her projected northerly safe path to a south then westerly destructive one.  I guess she didn't want to miss out on all of the fun that Frances and Ivan had.  Being a woman, it was her prerogative after all.

We didn't get the full brunt of Jeanne's wrath, but just enough to knock out the power again for a couple more weeks and to re-deposit all of the debris that was gathered up after Frances.  The two trees that were uprooted during Frances remain where they fell, but are thriving.  The sea grape produces sweet grapes and the coconuts still bears its fruit - it's way easier to grab one at ground level than trying to shimmy up the twenty foot tree.

The hardest thing to deal with during a storm is the boredom.  There's no power so there's no television or Internet, but we did have a radio and could listen to "Air America" with Al Franken and friends.  The worst thing, for me at least, was being locked up in the same house with Satan for what seemed like an eternity.  Twice.

It's been six years since a major storm has hit, but I am now getting that uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach once again.  There is a storm brewing just above Hispaniola and it looks like it is headed our way  and the westerlies don't appear to be strong enough to steer it northward and away from the islands.  The hurricane centre isn't going to do another fly by until tomorrow, making it unclear as to where it may be headed.  So, I may be away for a bit, making my chore and shopping lists, checking them twice, for I know if the storm comes, it will be naughty, not nice.  And her name will be Bonnie.

"Bonnie lass", my ass.

Did You Know...

... that wasn't a  UFO flying over China just recently.

It was the original cap BP used in the Gulf oil spill.

The Siren (Epilogue)

It taunts me no more.

Sitting there,

Liberated from its box,

I cannot help but look.

It beckons me with its speed.

Like the caterpillar from its cocoon,

It is as elegant as the butterfly.

It surfs the web

Like a knife cuts through butter.

The Siren has hooked her lover.

The ship has sailed.

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Note to reader:  This is a follow up on my Magpie tale, The Siren .

(And, if you haven't guessed it, both were about my new laptop.)

*doin' the happy dance*

Kids Can Do The Darndest Things

The following is a true story (really, I can't make this shit up):

My mother and my maternal aunt and uncle all had kids, and I am one of seven grandchildren.  Like all grandparents, ours had the unfortunate job inevitable joy of looking after us at one time or another, not all at the same time of course, while our respective parents were at work.

My uncle was quite an athlete when he was younger and would watch and involve his sons in many sports as they grew up. He has three boys, the eldest, Kevin (not his real name) being about sixteen years younger than me.  All of his kids would follow in their father’s footsteps by joining hockey and baseball teams at very young ages.  They all played extremely well, I might add.

Before his brothers were born, my grandmother would look after Kevin for a few days a week.  Kevin was about two years old during this time.  When Granny had to run errands, Kevin would be loaded into the obligatory car seat and taken along for the ride.  These trips were usually uneventful.

Usually.

Like most toddlers do when you are not watching them, Kevin would get into mischief.  So, after returning home one day from shopping, Granny left Kevin in the back seat so she could keep an eye on him while unloading the groceries that were, in those days, still packed in brown paper bags. This would take a few trips back and forth from the car. On her final trip, she was horrified to discover the entire interior of the car had been egged:  it was all over the back seat, the front seat and Kevin was covered in it.  The last and final grocery bag had contained a carton of eggs which had been placed right on top and which was located right beside Kevin in the backseat.

Apparently, Kevin got bored while waiting to be liberated from the car.

Now I'm not sure exactly what was said, but from what I understand, it went something like this:

Granny, not normally known to use expletives, yelled at him, “What in the HELL did you do?”, to which Kevin excitedly cheered, "Baseball!!"

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 Theme Thursday is having a "Ball" - check out the others!

You Haven't Left Yet??

I was totally stumped for a post for this Theme Thursday when, all of a sudden, I heard a familiar cry from across the canal.  Well, maybe more like a screech, or the sound a cat makes when you step on its tail.  You see, there is a very loud and noisy parrot that lives across the waterway.  I concede that this post isn't particularly imaginative on this week's theme, or particularly humourous for that matter, but it sort of involves the colour of blue.

At any rate, the neighbouring parrot reminded me of a day years ago when I lived out in the country.

Not far away lived some friends who trained and bred dogs and had a small kennel on their property.  One summer, they were invited to an all-day wedding affair that was quite a distance away.  Since they probably wouldn't get home until later that evening, I volunteered to look in on the dogs.

Their kennel consisted of some six or seven mastiffs - one dog was always left inside the house as a guard.  They also had a blue and gold macaw who's name was Boomer.  Boomer was very loud when he squawked and screeched and could be very annoying when he was hungry or wanting attention.  Cheryl and David (not their real names) got Boomer a few years earlier.  Macaws are very intelligent birds and can be taught to speak.  Boomer, on rare occasions, would say a word or two, but usually when no visitors were around.

I should mention here that this kennel was the ultimate alarm system:  anyone coming up the driveway would be announced by continuous barking until David came out and hollered at them to be quiet.

So, on this hot summer day, I arrived at around 3 p.m.  All the windows in the house were open to vent the heat.  The dogs, as expected, were barking like mad and it was extremely loud.  I had to shout as best as I could to be recognized as a friend.  They were having none of it.   When I started towards the kennel so they could see me,  I heard David's voice coming from the house, yelling his usual command at the canines.

David and Cheryl were supposed to leave early this morning, I thought to myself.   "David, are you still here?   No response.  "Hello?  Did you forget something?", I called as I approached the house; the dogs still barking wildly.  Just before I reached the door, David's voice again bellowed in a more succinct manner, "Shut - the - fuck - up!"  It got eerily quieter.  I'd swear on a stack of bibles that it was David's voice that I had heard, but after I searched the house and was satisfied that no one was there, it finally dawned on me that the voice could only have originated from one source:  Boomer.  From that day on, I never heard Boomer speak a single word other than gobbledigook.  I'm sure he was laughing at me.

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This is a Theme Thursday post  - check out the others!

Phardon Me?

It was the mid seventies and my second, and last year at boarding school in the U.S.  I would be returning to Canada to finish high school.  In order to graduate in Ontario, one must have at least thirty eligible credits, whereas in the States (or at least in Florida), the requirement was six or eight credits less.

Determined to get all the required courses I could get in this second year, I signed up for geometry.  Unfortunately,  this conflicted with an elective class that I also wanted to take.  Alas, a sacrifice was made.

Geometry was my first class every day.  The teacher was new to the school and unknown to any of the students.  Upon entering the classroom  for the first time, everyone noticed that all the window blinds were closed and there was subdued lighting emanating from the overhead fluorescents, making the room somewhat darker than what we were used to.  Granted, the morning sun was a bit blinding at that time of day, but the north side shades were also closed.  We were all puzzled.

More puzzling was the teacher.  He was writing on the blackboard as the class entered.  His back was toward us.  When he finished writing and after everyone had taken their seats, he turned around.  Oh my god, I thought to myself.  They've hired Dracula!  Standing at the front of the room was a tall, dark-haired man, dressed in a black robe-like garment and wearing sunglasses.

Yes, sunglasses.

None of us knew what to make of him.  He appeared very strange and ominous.  My first thought was that he wanted to intimidate the class with his appearance.  He certainly did achieve that effect.  That was until he spoke.  We were all expecting a deep, foreboding voice to accompany this somewhat daunting figure standing before us.  Instead, he sounded like my stepfather (a.k.a. Satan ) when Satan rambled nonsense to himself in a somewhat high nasal voice.  It took all I had not to bust out laughing. Some other students also chuckled.

After introducing himself , he told us that he was from the Philippines, and that the bright morning light and the chalk dust, to which he was allergic, would irritate his eyes.  Thus, the shades of both types were explained.  I assumed the black robe was to protect his clothing underneath from collecting chalk dust.

He also had a slight speech impediment wherein, for example, he would say "phlease" instead of "please".

It was my third week in geometry.  I was struggling not so much with the lessons, but with the voice of the teacher and the fact that he was becoming more phonetically challenged as the days progressed.  It was somewhat hard to ignore, but I stuck it out.

Then one fateful day in that third week, he dissected the triangle, complete with diagrams and explaining all the angles, sines, cosines and tangents.

I immediately knew that I would not be earning this math credit when he pointed to the blackboard and uttered the words, "Can anyone name this 'phart' of the triangle."

Bodies fell to the floor erupting in laughter, with me being the first.  I happily dropped geometry for drama.
  

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This Theme Thursday's prompt is:  Triangle

The Dozo Zone

Imagine, if you will, a house situated in a quiet neighbourhood, in which lives three occupants:  a woman, her husband and her daughter from a previous marriage.

During the time they live in Scarborough, every Sunday without fail, the stepfather complains about the numerous cars parked on the other side of the street in front of their house.

Their next door neighbour is of Some Religious Order who, with his congregation, holds Sunday services in his home, hence the volume of vehicles clogging up the road.

The stepfather, a highly intelligent man of questionable veracity, is always wanting to be the centre of attention. He fabricates stories and complains about anything just so someone will, at the very least, tell him to "shut the fuck up".  As long as he is acknowledged, the manner in which it is expressed isn't important to him.

One particular Sunday unfolds as follows:

The Players:
Antagonist: The stepfather. A lawyer with a diabolical sense of humour and a dubious storyteller, has an annoying need for constant recognition. He knows how to push buttons. He knows how to push your buttons. He pushes the buttons of the daughter too far this one morning. We will call him Satan.

The Extra: The mom. She is too involved in her newspaper to acknowledge anything worthy of her attention. Really, she doesn't care. She does this on purpose. She knows Satan too well. We will call her Mom.

Protagonist:  The daughter.  She is not a morning person by any means, especially after a late night, and doesn't engage in any meaningful conversation before her first cup of coffee. She is slightly hung over this morning.  She has a short temper. Unlike Mom, the daughter has yet to develop the skills necessary to ignore Satan. We will call her The Idiot.

The Scene:
Sunday morning: Two family members are drinking coffee, Mom is at the table reading the Sunday paper, Satan is skulking around from room to room, also reading the paper and babbling on about something or other every time he enters the kitchen. Sometimes he just babbles to himself while he wanders about. We attribute this to attention-seeking behaviour or a symptom of schizophrenia.

Enter The Idiot wearing a ratty twelve year old, hospital-issued, knee-length terrycloth robe that is fraying around the edges and which is sporting soon-to-become embarrassingly situated holes in the chest area. The robe is flagged for the rag bag.

The Story:
"M'rnin'", mumbles The Idiot, stumbling into the kitchen.  “Morning”, replies Mom who doesn’t look up from her paper.

Satan is off in some other room.

The Idiot gets her coffee, sits down at the table and grabs a section of the paper already discarded by the other two.

"Oh my God!”, loudly exclaims Satan from somewhere near the foyer. “There are cars everywhere!", referring to the congregation's vehicles. Mom is oblivious to the statement. The Idiot, annoyed at being distracted from her reading, rolls her eyes.

Satan enters the kitchen. "They've blocked off the entire street!", complains Satan, again, in case nobody heard it mere seconds ago. "Whatever", says The Idiot, irked and uninterested.

Satan shuffles in and out of the kitchen for the next half hour, breaking the periodic silence with his verbal diarrhea about the Blue Jays' recent loss, the exchange rate of the Yen, or the climatic conditions currently plaguing the penguins in Antarctica.   Sometimes he just makes nasal honking noises.  This continues off and on, annoying The Idiot who is still trying to enjoy a morning coffee and newspaper despite her hangover. Satan has become aware of The Idiot’s post-inebriated condition.

About ten minutes later, the random ramblings return to the parking situation.  "Oh my God! They have not only taken over the street, but they have taken over our driveway!", rants Satan.

The Idiot, who has not even been able to finish the article she originally started to read when she first picked up the paper, erupts with rage and stomps to the front door, certain that Satan is spewing lies. To her surprise, there is a strange car parked in the driveway right behind Satan's car. From the rear-view mirror hangs an icon of Jesus. Satan is Jewish, but the family is not religious.

Fueled by Satan's accusations and innuendo, not to mention the dangling pious figure, The Idiot believes the car belongs to one of the members visiting next door. She flings the front door open in anger - anger not so much intended for the car owner, but toward Satan who has really pissed her off to no end - and traipses barefoot across the lawn with disheveled hair and tattered holey robe, and knocks on the neighbours' door.

Dressed in his Sunday's finest, the neighbour answers the door.  "Does that car possibly belong to one of your members?", asks The Idiot, pointing to the mysterious vehicle in her driveway. The man, shocked and confused at The Idiot's appearance, cautiously ventures out of his house to take a look.  Before he can utter a word, two people emerge from the far side of The Idiot's house.  She immediately recognizes them.  Retrieving her jaw from the ground and thinking that any explanation, at this point, would sound more ridiculous than she looks, The Idiot apologizes profusely to the neighbour.  Unceremoniously, The Idiot retraces her steps back to her house, seething in anger and mutters to herself, "I AM going to kill him", and greets the unexpected visitors very red faced.

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We had  moved into the house in Scarborough about three months earlier. The surprise visitors decided to take a peek around the grounds before they announced their arrival.  It was their car in the driveway.  I was extremely embarrassed. Yes, I  wanted to shoot myself.  But not before I shot Satan.

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Note to readers: The preceding post was NOT intended to offend any fathers on this, their honoured day. Because this story co-incidentally happened on a Sunday, I decided to post it today. But, to all of you dads out there:

Happy Father's Day!