When Hurricane Andrew struck South Florida a quarter century ago, I was an upcoming college junior spending the summer at home. My parents had traveled to take my younger brother to start college in California.
Because recent hurricanes at the time had delivered some false alarms, I remember hearing conversations about whether people would take Andrew seriously. I did.
A friend and I stood in line for hours at a grocery store to stock up on supplies. We treated ourselves to snacks while the line weaved through aisles.
Instead of weathering the storm home alone with our dog, I decided to hunker down with my two grandmas at one of their homes.
Before leaving my own home, I corralled the family’s outdoor cats and locked them in a bathroom, hoping they could co-exist despite their previous differences. I tried to catch a feral cat which considered our property his home. He escaped my clutches and I wished him luck.
After arriving at grandma’s house, I began lowering the home’s old hurricane shutters. The one hanging over the front porch wouldn’t budge.
When the electricity went out that night, I moved my grandmothers into a hallway without windows. I captured the moment, shooting video of my grandmothers and the dog in the hallway. One of my grandmothers squinted as the camera’s light pierced the darkness. (Today, the video tape still sits on a dresser at home.) On the radio, we listened to Bryan Norcross, a local TV weatherman. He provided a play-by-play as Andrew approached and plowed his way through.
I listened as rain and wind, in sporadic sheets, pressed hard against the big, unprotected window in front. I waited to hear shattering glass. Eventually, one of the grandmothers, who had spent four decades dealing with such storms, decided to disobey her 20-year-old grandson. Sitting in a chair in the hallway was not comfortable. She left and laid down in her bedroom beneath two windows.
When the storm ended, I looked outside. The storm had dismantled the overhead screen covering grandma’s pool. One of the hurricane shutters had ripped off the house and landed down the street. We were lucky. Grandma’s home, built in the 1950s, stood up to Mother Nature. But an uncle’s home took a direct hit. And debris flew into the window of a family friend’s home. Wind invaded their home and, with no exit plan, moved room to room, delivering significant damage.
The telephone lines survived the night. In the early morning hours, I called my brother’s college searching for my parents. Someone explained school policy prevented her from providing me personal information such as the telephone number to my brother’s dorm room. After I explained the situation, she received authority to break the rules.
Grandma’s house remained dark for days. I hadn’t realized how much we depend on artificial light until none existed, not even a single street light or the glow of a neighbor’s television. At night, I heard voices in the neighborhood but saw no one. I called a friend. He explained when his family evacuated their home on Miami Beach, it was the first time he saw fear in his father’s eyes. My friend and I spoke for three hours on the phone to occupy our time.
The electricity turned on at my grandma’s home before other locations. An uncle, aunt and cousins started sleeping over to take advantage of the air conditioning. My grandma welcomed the extra company but was not accustomed to the crowd. At one point, she lost her cool. I remember yelling.
I eventually transferred myself to my other grandma’s apartment, which still lacked electricity. One night, she and I sat on her upstairs balcony, talking for hours and listening to mysterious voices and noises below. That time together, the two of us alone with nothing but our words and stories, was my most memorable moment with her.
My parents flew back from California. We drove to our home. Street lights had crashed on to pavement. Debris punctured holes into the tires of cars attempting to navigate the streets. Fallen trees devoured the street I grew up on. We climbed through the woods to get home. The house, built by my father the architect, stood proudly defiant. A tree had toppled on it but split in two without damaging the home. We opened the backdoor and freed the cats. They gingerly stepped outside, sniffing the ground, confused by a different-looking world that changed within hours. The feral cat showed up, safe and looking as if I should have never doubted him.
Landmarks we had taken for granted, such as an otherwise undistinguished tree that reminded drivers where to turn, went missing. Neighborhoods changed.
A grocery store welcomed us inside. Their electric registers and scanners were useless. Someone handed us a black marker. The store employee told us to shop and write on the items the price listed on shelves. Cashiers would take us at our word.
Without electricity, I missed most of the national coverage of the storm. But I watched it a different way. Hurricane Andrew served as a defining moment for the community I grew up in. The only neighborhood I knew, where I had ridden my bike, where my dog had chased me around, never looked the same. The visual transformation was so striking, I felt I had lost a link to the past.
My family has since moved away from Florida. For one, hurricanes have a way of spiking insurance premiums. But home is never too far away. I regularly text the friend who spoke with me on the phone for more than three hours in the dark. He still lives near the beach in Florida. Now Irma is approaching. He evacuated with his family.
Hurricanes are nature’s fully clenched fist. They also demonstrate the compassion society can show for strangers down the street or states away. They remind us how determined we are to stand up when something knocks us down. They teach us to rebuild our communities stronger than before. They show us friends will keep us company in the dark. And they ensure we cherish family even when generations apart.
This hurricane season will eventually no longer dominate headlines. But the impact can last a lifetime. Our hearts go out to those who have lost loved ones and homes in Hurricane Harvey and Irma.