Hurricane Irene is currently barreling down on both our Chesapeake home and our New England home. I've weathered (pun intended) two hurricanes in New England - I spent Hurricane Gloria in 1985 huddled under a blanket with my cat, and in 1991 my sleepover camp on Cape Cod was evacuated to a local elementary school to keep us safe from Hurricane Bob.
We are going ahead with our weekend agenda with only slight modifications for the storm, which my mom remains convinced will go out to sea. Jack is currently aboard a trusty Southwest flight, and we still plan to hold a slightly early birthday brunch honoring Miss Petal. The only guests who have bowed out so far are the NYC-metro area cousins, who cited traffic concerns. We were planning on driving back on Sunday but it seems much more prudent to wait until Monday. Nearly this same scenario played out during the holidays last year, when Jack's Sunday afternoon flight back to Maryland was cancelled by a snow storm and he had to take an unexpected day off of work.
Last year around this time, Hurricane Earl was on weather-watcher's radar (again, pun intended.) I kept a close eye on the storm because I was nearly full term in my pregnancy with Petal and I was sure that the drop in barometric pressure would send me into labor. I even committed to sticking Petal with the middle name Earlene if the storm had anything to do with her birth (for the record, it had nothing to do with her birth and she has a lovely, non-weather inspired middle name.)
And now I'm off to go retrieve the hubby. Be glad you don't have to drive me with, as I will probably butcher my way through Bob Dylan's Hurricane most of the way to the airport.
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