I live in the Chicago suburbs, in a quiet neighborhood that has never succumbed to mass evacuation, unless one counts Nov. 2, 2016 when residents streamed from their homes after the Cubs clinched the World Series and hurled expletives at the heavens.
For the record, I live in the SOUTH suburbs, where, among lifelong residents anyway, the Cubs are about as popular as a colony of roaches making an appearance during a formal dinner party. As a diehard Cubs fan, I was forced to gleefully run through my house with all the lights off, a celebration that ended when my hip collided with a bannister.
But events of the past week made me ponder what I would do if someone in uniform, any uniform, knocked on my door and gruffly stated, “Leave now.” That was the situation in the Carolinas; whole communities were told to uproot in the days before Hurricane Florence roared ashore.
I monitored the situation via Facebook posts from my friend Jim, a Washington, D.C.-based anchorman reporting live from the scene. Despite my texted pleas to “not be one of those news guys who stands in the surf during a Category 4 storm and says, ‘Check out these winds. IT’S REALLY WINDY HERE!’” there was Jim, being pelted by wind, rain and mid-size objects. I haven’t heard from him in days, and I am hoping it was just his phone, and not his entire body, that got swept out to sea.
As Florence pounded the east coast, I was traveling, on business, through Napa, Calif., another area just recovering after devastating brush fires forced many residents to seek alternate accommodations, perhaps forever. Signs reading “Thank you, first responders” dotted the vineyards, where grapes of all varieties awaited harvesting. Seated alone with a glass of pinot noir one evening, I pondered what I would take from my home — wife, kids and dog aside — if nature’s wrath ever came calling. Considering my house currently looks like an ideal location for one of those hoarding reality shows, it won’t be easy. Or will it?
I’ll leave my computer, as I have diligently backed up all my important files in something called “The Cloud.” I’m not sure where the cloud is but I’m told by unseen forces at Microsoft who collect $43 dollars from me every month for “cloud storage,” that my files will remain floating, or doing whatever files do in the cloud, forever. I wonder why “The Cloud” is not called something a little more indestructible. “The Brick,” “The Boulder,” “The Core” or “The Donald’s Hair” would be suitable alternatives.
I’d be OK if everything in my kitchen were destroyed. Plates and glassware are easily replaceable; and those cool-sounding appliances that were purchased to perform exactly one function and have been sitting, unused for years, in a corner of the pantry. When I return to what’s left of my domicile, I do not plan to stand over a hunk of twisted or charred aluminum and wail, “The Muffinator is gone!”
The dining room table? Take it, Mother Nature. It would allow me to fulfill my fantasy of inviting relatives over for Thanksgiving dinner and serving turkey and stuffing on paper plates while we all watch football. The result would be less clean up and no heated political discussions. As long as my favorite beer mug survives the carnage, I’ll be OK.
Moving upstairs, my closet is filled with clothes that are starting to fit poorly or that I hate wearing. Suits and sport coats, for example. A natural disaster would give me an excuse to live the rest of my years in my preferred attire — jeans and T-shirts. I’d wear them to the most formal of occasions, knowing I could silence any disapproving patron simply by saying, “I lost everything in the (insert disaster here) of 2018.” Then, pointing to the Cubs World Series Champions T-shirt I was wearing to the black-tie-required event, I’d add, “Except this.”
Finally, if the bed my wife and I have shared for 25 years is lost forever, I’ll use my insurance money to purchase an air mattress that sleeps two. We tucker out earlier now, and the idea of being able to go to bed in any room, as opposed to one, intrigues me. I’ll need only a quick blast of electricity.
Perhaps I can store some in The Cloud.
