Helene Thursday

"I beg you take courage; the brave soul can mend even disaster."

-Catherine the Great

I remember it was about ten in the morning under a pale white Persian Gulf sky. We'd just received the execute order that, in about twelve hours, would result in Operation Desert Storm. Some guys were euphoric, while others, myself included, felt a sick foreboding for what was to come.

And I remember abiding with that sickness, for hours under that milky sky, nothing to do but wait for the awful thing to happen, for the liberation of being too busy to think. But for the balance of that day there was only the waiting, the uncertainty, the sense of a disaster looming once the sun set and we swung into our final preparations for the air assault that would begin the war.

It was a decidedly shitty day.

Feeling some of that right now, sitting in darkness in my office, listening to the clock tower strike 8 a.m., and knowing that the first rain bands are lashing Wyldswood right now.

Twelve hours from now as a Cat 4. Dear God. Our poor cows. Our poor donkeys.

I should be working, or doing a virtual class. Something useful and productive. Something to distract. But I can't seem to get out of this chair, or find the willpower to do anything but sit here in silence and mourn what's to come. Peg and I have been here before, but this will tear at our hearts a lot more than what happened nearly six years ago when we were rendered homeless by Michael. Wyldswood was home. Wyldswood is home, at least for a few more hours.

It's almost more than one can bear, doing this all again. Almost. We'll get through today, hope to gather intel over the next couple days as to what's left if there's phone service and George or Clinton can make it onto the property and tell us what they find, then fly to Perry on Sunday to see for ourselves. Damn, I hope the truck we left sitting at the airport doesn't get washed away. Did I leave it full of gas? If not, we can't expect to go fill up in Tallahassee--by the looks of things, they're going to get it worse than us, with all those beautiful canopy oaks shattered and strewn over roads and power lines and homes.

It's almost more than one can bear.

But we will. No point in worrying. Would it help?

At least no one will be shooting at us tonight. And we have each other.