 We lost electrical power service for a week or so after Hurricane Milton. As soon as we were able to venture into the Wild West that is Florida driving without working stoplights—old geezer moment, but honestly! People! It's a 4-way stop! Take turns! How hard is the concept?—my favorite skipper and his Mamma Pat and I went to our house and cleaned up a bit. I am beyond lucky in my mother-in-law, who willingly swan-dived into the fridge and not just cleaned it out but–Cleaned. It. OUT. Grateful, I left her to it, only snatching a couple of luke-warm Hershey's Special Dark Chocolate Kisses from the discard pile.  Not a huge chocolate fan, and these days I don't think I can even eat them (the milk sensitivity keeps dialing up and up), but these cold purple cones connect me to my own mom. Mumsie lived in a cute little bungalow in Northeast St. Pete. Messy, cozy, full of books and dust and pets, her house was both a haven and an irritation for my sister and me. Entropy was strong in that place, especially after Mumsie retired. It became habit to perform a quick de-squalorization upon arrival. Mumsie was not really a fan of her daughters bustling around tidying up her mess, but she loved us beyond measure. A student of our likes and weaknesses, she learned that a supply of dark chocolate in the refrigerator would oblige us to sit down, stop grousing about the pizza boxes, and simply savor one or two Specials in her company.  So it happened that when we cleaned out Mumsie's house that final time, I seeded my own fridge with purple foil-wrapped treats left over from her Frigidaire. And over the past decade and a half, I've periodically renewed my supply. It's magical thinking to imagine that, lo these many generations later, any of those chocolate nuggets might be one direct from Mumsie. And it's magical thinking to imagine an alchemical charm transfers from the old stock to the new. But the reason I snatched a couple from the brink is because those kisses are going back into the cheese drawer. And I'm buying a new package to empty on top of them.  And I will know, deep in my bones where magic doesn't need to make sense, that these are kisses from Mumsie.
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Decades of living near the west coast of Florida have granted me a certain sangfroid about, oh, you know, Florida things. (www.etymonline.com/word/sang-froid)  With the daily exception of cars and fire-ants, most of the hazards have proven to be hypothetical, rhetorical dangers for me. The stories circulate, and one thinks, airily, it's the price one pays to live in this humid paradise. Oh, well, you tell yourself, shuffle as you walk on the beach. If there's red tide, stay inside. Tread carefully in tall grass. Watch for the glint of the gold chain on the guy driving the cigarette boat, because he's not looking for you. Avoid night swimming. Be cautious strolling with your dog around a retention pond. Never lick a toad. Shake out your shoes before putting them on. At least we don't have to shovel snow. Every so often, however, even the most chilled-blood of us all is taken aback by the casual violence of the place. Two hurricanes, for instance, each with a wide eye glued on home base—that's enough to unsettle a native.  Then you begin to think about the stories: throwing a line around oneself and making a human sandwich between a couple of mattresses while a tornado pulls the roof off. Being chased upstairs, then to the attic, and then tearing one's way out of the roof when the flood waters rise, then clinging to the topmost branches of the oak tree as the waters swirl. Riding the top of the dining room table as it bobs and nudges against the sliding glass doors. Not my stories, but told by pals who survived Katrina and Maria. You wonder if maybe it's better to skip town for the season. We were away for Helene (another North American title for my favorite skipper! Hurrah!) and missed the flooding, but we spent Milton sheltering with Mamma Pat. As dark fell, and the electricity went out, and the wind howled, I kept asking myself, "Does THAT sound like a tornado?" "Wait, how about THAT?"  It was not a tornado. It was a foot of rain and winds close to 100 mph. We were overall so very fortunate: No lives lost, material losses that can be recouped, and ready options for where to stay and how to get around. Many, MANY of our neighbors were not so fortunate.  This "I was a good girl and survived the storm without eating my companions" treat was only Unreal in how much it tasted like soap. According to one of our sailing friends in the Florida Keys (Hi Jim S!), it will be about six months until people generally forget what the hurricane was like, or really, even that the storms happened.  I hope so, but I also hope not.
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