2004-09-07
auntiecane
I have a hazy memory of Aunt Bobbie: a dark-haired woman in boots, walking with me on the beach and talking, talking, as if I were a grown-up. She gave me a sock puppet shaped like a pony. I probably found her glamorous. Only later did I learn she was much older than my uncle, left her rich hubbie and twelve-year-old son to live with him, travel around Europe in furs, then dump my uncle for somebody younger. Then my uncle lived in their basement while she hooked up with a new guy, a minister, of all things. This is the lady my uncle supposedly married "over the phone."
If I wrote this as a short story, nobody would believe it.
Yesterday we drove up to my aunt's. It took double the amount of time to reach West Palm (almost four hours). Traffic creeped along, thanks to mile-long gas lines (no exaggeration), street signs dangling like loose teeth, billboards crumpled into the road. We avoided 95, which has collapsed into a sinkhole in some cursed location.
My aunt had a foot-high wave of water...not too much damage, certainly not as bad as hurricane Andrew. I think she's keeping her furniture, maybe get a new fridge (water could rust it) and the carpets were tossed. She's glad to replace them with tile. Lots of trees down, especially the palms. But strangely enough, the screen around her pool stayed in place, except for one spot where a tree toppled over. We drove up there with our generator for them to borrow. It rumbles like a lawn mower. The weirdest thing: somebody's rowboat beaches itself on their front yard.
f-i-n at 1:24 p.m.