No More Presents

Trust me on this one: this little item has NEVER been on your birthday wish list…

It’s 2:30 of the a.m. on what I had known for a couple of days was going to be a long, sleepless night. What I didn’t know, until right about now, was that it could very possibly be my last one.

Sept. 27th: Happy Birthday to me!

Not sure which of you guys invited that old broad Helene to my doin’s, but I ain’t appreciating it. She’d be better left out in the middle of the Atlantic/Pacific somewhere. After all, Georgia just rightly ain’t no place for a hurricane to come sloshing through.

The eerie night had been noisy enough, sustained howling winds paving the way for what was to come. But at 2:30 on the dot in Dublin, the switch flipped.

I’m no weatherman—who is?—and can’t tell you whether it was Helene’s eye, elbow or maybe kneecap that was just now arriving, but 2:30 is when assorted limbs, trees, more limbs, shingles and roofs began seeking new pastures. What had been forever vertical was suddenly horizontal.

When it finally hit the ground.

One of the huge backyard oaks came down, stopping 10 feet from the patio. It’s still there as I type…

Because there are more urgent things for chainsaws to be doing.

Hundred-year-old trees make a peculiar noise when they finally touch down. And jolt the entire neighborhood. They’re collapsing by the dozen now, nearing three o’clock. Their crashing mixes with the staccato blasts of power transformers exploding, utility poles crashing, their wires snapping as easily as kite string…

As she rips and screams, I post up in my favorite recliner, battery-powered light standing at my side. Odd the thoughts one has at a time like this. Possibly even more odd is that I’m writing them down to maybe tell you or someone else about them later. If there is one.

Things like…

My favorite Bible verse: II Chronicles, 20:12. Look it up and see how well it fits. And, like Paul, I know whom I have believed…

That bear from last week keeps popping up. Never saw anything like that in all my years. His story is back a few pages, by the way…

Then: how can you sit here with a smile on your face thinking about a bear when you should be terrified by a hurricane coming down your chimney?

Well, whitetail opener is only a couple weeks off…

First and foremost, my boys are safe. Yeah, I’ll take that bullet. Neither—150 miles and 16 miles from me—ever even lost power.

Two hours after it started, exactly 4:30, it was over. The finality was fairly stunning. Helene had moved on.

Leaving havoc in her wake.

The worst part? After skipping over me, the storm took down a coven of ancient pines that fell side by side onto the fourth house up the street.

My neighbor died beneath them.

Why? Forever unanswerable.

Life goes on. Has to. Such as, it would have been easy to cite all the hazards of getting this magazine to readers across our state, sit in a home with no power and rationalize that our delivery drivers just can’t get there.

You know: roads, trees, power lines, bridges, flooding…

But I’ve been doing this a long time; felt like y’all NEEDED your GON. If we can be any sort of comfort at all—let’s get to it.

Cordele to Albany to Dawson to Shellman to Cuthbert… not bad at all. A little wind damage…

But Dublin to Glenwood, Baxley, Hazlehurst, Bristol, Jesup, Richmond Hill, Statesboro… No way to add up all the grounded trees, including pecan groves that have been producing for decades. Gone.

And finally, Chula to Norman Park to Thomasville, Valdosta, Adel, Tifton, Fitzgerald.

Valdosta was the closest I’d seen to Dublin, when it comes to damage. Our two cities will forever feature different vistas.

Took a photo of a dozen or more bucket trucks lining my street. It took five days, but linemen from all over the country swooped in to give us a hand and get things running again. The group in my yard was from Florida. As I thanked them with Gatorade and water from a 120-quart cooler, one told me he hadn’t been home in 17 days. Came here following similar storm work in Texas. Leaving Georgia en route to North Carolina.

And had no way of knowing what his own home looked like.

There’s simply not enough gratitude to go around for these guys.

And then—you guessed it!—there’s that one crumbum…

You may have figured out that I do a lot of rolling. On a schedule. So when I stop, it’s usually brief.

There’s this store between Bristol and Jesup, in a town that’s a four-letter word…

No lights, but open. I whipped in for the breakfast of champions: turned out to be a pint of milk and a banana nut bread muffin.

Clerk picked up the plastic-wrapped muffin and acted as if he was entering the bar code—into a 30-year-old, battery-operated calculator.

Interesting.

“Eight fifty!”

“Uh, what?”

“Eight fifty!”

Apologies, but I’d simply seen too much hardship and wasn’t hungry enough to be gouged. The rest of the conversation can likely best be described as “colorful.” It came complete with detailed instructions on where and how to place milk and a muffin. And Yo, Helene—you missed a spot…