Frances

I am the eye. I am the calm center in a swirling sea of chaos. I am the self-appointed slapper of hysterical persons. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Crazed relatives up in Boston paying outrageous sums of money to fly Carolyn and the kids back one day early to avoid being caught in a hurricane. What about us? Why aren't they flying me and my kids out of harm's way?

I am the houseboy pushed off the helicopter at the fall of Saigon.

Neighbors planning to jump in their RVs and cars and race back to their old hometowns in New York, and Michigan, never to return. This is the Big One. This is the unnamed Labor Day hurricane of 1935 coming back to finish what it didn't destroy the first time. This one will wipe the entire state of Florida off the map.

SLAP!

Fist fights at the gas station. Nervous, half-joking cracks from people already exhibiting Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, about me emptying the gas station's fuel tanks while I top off my Excursion. (Yup, 13.1 gallons per mile isn't the greatest, but I got a 40 gallon tank, plus a little extra reserve after the empty mark, so there.) East coasters speeding over to our wrecked area, in search of hotel rooms that don't exist, when this storm, of uncertain path, is large enough to cover most of the state anyway.

SLAP!

Panicked friends and relatives throwing money at my husband's crew, desperately trying to get their homes and businesses boarded up, not considering that the crew has property of their own they would like to protect. Sorry folks, it's way too late for that, supposing you could even find the plywood and other supplies in the first place.

Sit tight, people.