By SUE CARLTON, Times Columnist
Published October 28, 2005
The phone rang early Monday morning. It was my sister Kelly, hunkered down at home in the suburbs of Broward County, not far from the Everglades. Even over the phone I could hear the wind outside like somebody screaming.
What sounded like a tornado had roared past, she said, and then she heard something tear away from the roof of her townhouse. Upstairs, rain was pouring in through an air conditioning vent.
She had her two teenagers tucked into the safest bedroom, the one with the storm shutters. And by the way, it's now a proven fact: A 17-year-old really can sleep through a hurricane.
My sister, a science teacher, has always had a thing for nature. I have this mental picture of her when she was about 8, letting fat snails crawl up her arms. She's taught legions of eighth-graders about the power of hurricanes. She takes them on field trips to the museum to feel man-made versions of the wind. "But I had no idea," she told me on the phone. "No idea."
She watched her porch screens rip apart and fly away, then the metal frames that had held them. From the peephole in her door, she saw a whole tree tumble past. "I have never been so scared," said my sister, who as far as I can remember has never been afraid of anything. A few minutes later, her cell phone went dead.
Finally, finally, that night, I heard from her again, calling on a borrowed cell phone. "Don't worry, we're all intact," said the quick message on my machine. "We're safe."
Like everyone else, they had lost power, she told me the next day. She was conserving what gas she had in her Honda - the lines at the gas stations were unbelievable - though she'd soon have to drive to school to feed Iggy, the 12-inch Uromastyx lizard who lives in an aquarium in her classroom.
Kelly and her 13-year-old, Katie, set out on foot, watching for snakes, swarming ants and downed power lines. Weird, Kelly said, how blasted the landscape looked. No trees, dead traffic lights dangling. They met neighbors she had only waved to before. People had stayed because it wasn't an evacuation zone. Everyone offered help, or food.
Her gas grill wasn't working, so they made cold meals of canned ravioli, beans, diced tomatoes, Pringles, fruit and cookies. A fierce army of black ants invaded their empty freezer and any food they left on the counter.
They took fast, cold showers and were thankful to have running water, not to mention cooler temperatures outside. They took their dog, Max, for lots of walks, but were always home by 7 p.m. curfew.
The TV and computer silent, they talked or read by candlelight like a prairie family, only with Time and Teen People. Kelly taught Katie to play rummy. Katie won.
Their crowded neighborhood had always been bright with lights even at night. But now, she said, it seemed like you could see every star on a blanket of black.
They had no idea when they would all go back to school, when Matt would go back to his restaurant job. For the moment, they were just living.
On a battery-powered radio, they heard stories of trailer park residents who lost everything, people with nowhere to go. "We were so lucky," my sister says every time we talk.
The nearby McDonald's reopened and the line stretched for blocks. People were hungry for something hot. Then the corner bagel shop did, too, coffee and bread only. Hot coffee, after trying to get instant to dissolve in tap water. For that, my sister waited in line.
Wednesday, she told me a rumor was circulating that the local Publix would soon get a shipment of meat. No, she had no way to cook burgers or anything, but it might mean they would have chicken at the deli. "Fried chicken," she said, sounding kind of dreamy.
The next time she called, she sounded like she'd won the Lotto.
They were coming home from a walk and looking over at their house, where the tatters of screens blew in the breeze. The porch light, she said, was on.
