Aftermath: Written by Gerry Leblond 11/01/2024
A true account of my trip to Florida to help clean up after Hurricane Michael
The midnight hour descended, a celestial tapestry of countless stars shimmering above. The rhythmic percussion of waves against the shore punctuated the profound darkness. To my right, the full moon's radiant reflection danced on the ocean's surface, a mesmerizing spectacle. Two distant vessels drifted languidly westward, their passage punctuated by sporadic bursts of light illuminating a low-hanging cloud bank on the horizon. Memories of the day flooded my consciousness – the southbound trek on I-75, a journey from Georgia into the ravaged heart of post-Hurricane Michael Florida. The further I drove, the more horrifying the devastation became. Shattered billboards lay scattered like fallen soldiers; houses, wounded and scarred, wore tarps as makeshift bandages. Trees, uprooted and maimed, lay strewn across the landscape, power lines a tangle of lifeless metal. Linemen, tireless heroes, battled to restore the lifeblood of electricity to millions of Florida residents left in darkness. The scale of the loss was soul-crushing, yet amidst the wreckage, the indomitable spirit of community shone brightly. In Tallahassee's outskirts, temporary shelters blossomed – tents arrayed in mall parking lots, church grounds transformed into havens, and homeowners generously opening their doors to displaced families. Neighbors shared meals cooked over open flames, offered cool water, and provided solace with heartfelt embraces. Approaching my island sanctuary, a police motorcade screamed past, heralding a detour. The coastal road was impassable, severed by the storm's fury. As these thoughts faded, the ethereal glows behind the ships gradually extinguished. My head succumbed to weariness, resting heavily on the table. Hours later, I awoke, and after a brief respite in the bedroom, succumbed to slumber. The island, mercifully, had escaped the worst of the storm's wrath. Days melted into weeks. The island home was restored to its former glory, electricity humming back to life. Our return to Georgia was a journey of relief. Three months passed in a blur, and we returned for repairs, the trip south a stark reminder of the lingering scars. The aftermath of such a ferocious storm as Michael would leave its mark for years, a testament to nature's destructive power and the long, arduous path to recovery.
The Fire: Written by Gerry Leblond 11/20/2024
This story is a true account of a fire our family had when I was a child.
It was the winter of 1969. I was eight years old at the time and usually didn't arrive home until around 4:00 P.M... The mile-long walk up the driveway to our farmhouse was tiring enough, but to add chores to the day was exhausting, especially for a young boy.
As I remember, the school closed early that day, but I dreaded going home because I knew extra chores would await me. A strange sense of uncertainty ran through me as I walked. As I crested the hill and passed the big silver barn, I heard the stirring of the horses in their stalls. Usually, they were quiet. But for some unknown reason, they seemed frantic. I could also hear the cackle of the thousands of chickens inside the barn.
When I finally arrived home, I walked into the house. My mother was sitting at the table with a hot cup of coffee in hand.
"Go change your clothes," she said with a smile, "I'll help you with your chores today."
"Alright!" I shouted with excitement and raced into my room. The school books I carried landed on the bed with a bounce. I quickly changed into my usual clothes for chores. Faded jeans and an old T-shirt made up my attire. When I finished dressing, I went back into the kitchen and my mother was still at the table with the cup to her lips, she winked and set the coffee cup on the table.
"Are you ready?" Mom asked.
"Yup," I answered.
Suddenly, the phone rang. It must have startled Mom because she jumped out of her seat and almost spilled the coffee as her hand glanced at the side of the cup.
"Go start the chores and I'll be right out," she stated.
"Ok," I replied.
During the winter, deep snow covered the ground between the two structures. A two-hundred-foot underground passageway led from the basement of the farmhouse to the barn. Lights hung along the ceiling, but cobwebs dangled everywhere in the eerie, damp, and dingy tunnel.
I began to walk down the hall toward the basement door that led to the tunnel; I could hear Mom speak.
"Hello," she said as she placed the receiver to her ear. "What do you want?" She asked. "No, you called me," Mom stated sternly.
As I touched the doorknob, a loud voice sounded. "Don't go in the barn," rang in my ear. I turned and walked back into the kitchen where Mom was still on the phone.
"I thought you were going to start the chores?" She asked.
"You said don't go in the barn," I answered.
"No, I didn't, I'm talking to your grandmother," Mom replied, "Now go start, and I'll be right out."
I turned and walked back down the hall, while my Mom and Grandma argued about who called who. When I reached the basement door, again the voice sounded when the knob was touched. "Don't go in the barn!" It said, a little louder than before.
"Did you say something to me, Mom?" I asked.
"No!" She answered harshly.
Again I touched the knob, and once more the voice sounded, even louder and more forceful than the last. "Mom quit telling me not to go in the barn," I shouted.
"I didn't say that!" Mom snapped. "Go start the chores now!" she said sharply.
This time I pulled the door open wide, the voice thundered in my head.
"Oh my God!" Mom screamed.
She slammed the phone down, raced to where I stood, grabbed me, and pulled me back into the hallway. "What's wrong?" I asked.
"We have to leave!" Mom said with fear in her voice.
"Why?" I asked.
"Don't ask questions we have to go now!" She shouted.
With me wrapped tightly in her arms, Mom raced out the door and ran toward the neighbor's house. As we passed the barn, smoke billowed from the vents. Within minutes, fire engulfed the entire barn. It spread so quickly; that nothing could be done to save it. Mom wept as tears streaked down her cheeks. The neighbor stood with us in the driveway and explained that she had already called the fire department and also contacted my Dad, who was at work only a few miles away.
In the distance, sirens blared as the fire engines sped up the long drive. Lights flashed, as they crested the hill. Dad was directly behind them. He stopped in the neighbor's driveway, bolted from his truck, and we embraced with watery eyes.
The fire was so intense that the firemen could not save the barn. So they concentrated on the farmhouse. After the flames had subsided, and the smoke cleared, a massive pile of ashes was all that remained where the barn once stood.