By Dr. Ian Kupkee
What could possibly be more important?
I thought my wife was playing Pokemon Go.
We had been in Ireland for several days, visiting the neolithic monuments of County Meath. The summer's caseload had been especially gruelling; the restorative hush bought by stone circles, holy wells and fairy trees was exactly what my ragged spirit needed. The nights, however, were for Dublin. If there was live music and free wi-fi, we were there - me with my pint, my wife with her phone, tapping...tapping... tapping.
I was less than thrilled. But it was her vacation too. In fact, it was her birthday. And at the end of the day, a happy wife means a happy life. That said, I was beginning to feel as if there were three of us on this trip - myself, my bride, and Mr. Mime! We'd spent all summer looking forward to this trip - what could possibly be more important?
"You guys must be freaking out!"
When we finished exploring ancient sites, we joined a tour group in Dublin. A tour of the city filled most of the day. Our guide enthralled us with tales of Viking raiders, Celtic warriors, martyred patriots, and of course, the subject of one of Ireland's most beloved folk songs, sweet Molly Malone. (Apparently, the real-life Molly was a..um...ahem…"lady of the night." Who knew?) Our guide offered to snap some pictures, but my other half was forever lagging behind, enraptured by the ever-present phone. I decided to talk to her about it over dinner.
By the time the tour ended, the group had started to relax, and introductions were being made. A boisterous gentleman in a baseball cap, clasped my hand and asked me where I was from. When I said, "Miami", his eyes widened.
"Whoa!" he gasped. "You guys must be freaking out!"
Perplexed, I turned to Lynn. "About….?"
Cap Guy still had my hand in a death grip. "The Category 5 hurricane that's headed your way! That thing's a monster!!"
For what felt like the first time in a week, Lynn put down her phone. "I was going to talk to you about it over dinner," she sighed, looking suddenly exhausted. "But...yeah. It's a monster. And it's headed our way."
I no longer cared about Mr. Mime. I was freaking out.
"Forget the cone. We have a plan"
Sensing my state of mind, Lynn suggested we proceed to Emergency Management Headquarters (read, the nearest pub), so she could bring me up to speed. It might not hit as a Cat 5, and landfall was anyone's guess. But it was going to be bad.
"Bad as in, we might be in the cone?" I asked. She started to say something, then stopped. "Forget the cone," she answered matter-of-factly."We have a plan. I've been back and forth with Tiffany (our head nurse) and we made some executive decisions. I also had the bank give her the extra house keys from our safe deposit box, and I gave her the alarm code to the house. Her husband's between contracts, so he storm proofed the house. We'll owe him money, but that's fine. The house is secured. Now for the clinic…"
While we waited for Mr. Guinness and Mr. Jameson to arrive at the meeting, I was briefed on the preparations that were made while I was enjoying my vacation. Extra water was ordered. Extra pet food was on the way. They had shut down boarding - travel plans had been scrapped anyway, and the whole area floods. I was reminded of the catfish that swam into the clinic from the parking lot after Hurricane Katrina.
No boarding. Good call.
The house's generator was better than the clinic's, so perishable medications and vaccines were being transported there. A skeleton crew was assembled in the event some of our employees would be forced to stay home after the storm. They set up a way to take credit card payments via Square. If that system was down, they were ready to go old school. Computers? Useless. They had printed out price sheets and were practicing making carbon copied invoices. Lynn had cancelled all the pre-scheduled social media posts and was keeping clients up to speed.
From Ireland.
"Oh!" she added. "I also hacked into your Google Drive account, updated the hurricane prep article from last year, scrounged up a different picture, and sent it to Brian at NBC 6. So that's running. I posted some preparation tips on Nextdoor…"
"Wait," my head was spinning, and not from the Guinness. "You hacked...when did…?"
She nearly choked on her drink as she shook her phone in my face. "What do you think I've been doing with this thing?!" she howled. "Catching Mr. Mime?!"
Indeed, the force of nature in that cozy little pub had a plan. Hurricane Irma had no idea what she was up against.
Sweet Molly Malone
Our next hotel was in a far-flung, pastoral village, light years from the whirlwind that is Dublin. Upon hearing of the guests from Miami, the proprietor quietly pulled Lynn aside and pointed her to a single chair in the corner of the lobby. From there, she could get enough of a wifi signal to "watch the wee hurricane." I knew I would find her there early the next morning. The 11 p.m. advisory had probably been out for an hour. I had only to look at her face to know the news was not good.
"So?" I asked, bracing for the worst. "How screwed are we?"
She sighed as she handed me her phone. "Think Sweet Molly Malone.
Still a Cat 5, Irma had made the turn no one in Miami wanted to see.
"We've just been evacuated."
Breakfast. Silence.
Packing. Silence.
Checkout. Silence.
The satellite image of "the wee hurricane" had smothered all words, leaving what little air remained hanging thick with dread. As we sat on the bus, waiting for stragglers, a breath of a wifi signal wafted in with the morning mist. Jarred into life, our phones suddenly clamored for our attention. The messages from friends in Irma's path came flooding in.
"Been here before. But this one scares me."
"Stuck in a gas line. No water. Evac routes gridlocked."
"Those of you with God in your lives, please make contact now."
And perhaps the most heartbreaking, "I feel like nowhere is safe. I'm 40 years old, I'm raising two kids, and all I want is for a grown up to tell me what I should do."
Then came the message from our head nurse, Tiffany - our general whose boots on the ground had secured both our home and our business:
"We've just been evacuated."
The bus ambled into gear, severing the invisible cord connecting us to the people we loved. Our phones went blank as the outside world was left behind in the mist.
"You will die in your cars."
Our next stop was a ruined monastery called Glendalough. "I'll catch up," Lynn clipped as she hopped off the bus. "You can fill me in on the history after I find a signal."
I hyperfocused on the guide's presentation in the hopes of quieting my churning thoughts. Glendalough means place of two lakes. It was founded by St. Kevin, a mystic of sorts who is known as the patron saint of blackbirds. Its iconic stone tower served as a place of refuge from regular Viking raids...
A place of refuge.
I was gawking skyward at the towering fortress when Lynn caught up with the group. She was expressionless, nodding as I gave her the short version of St. Kevin's bug-out station. "What's the status back home?" I asked.
"Panic. Paralysis. Most of the staff's been told to evacuate. Ditto for their families. They have nowhere to go. The whole state's under threat, no one knows where it's going to make landfall, and even if they did, it's taking people five hours to drive to Broward. Some of the guys are talking about going to Tampa, Ormond Beach, Jacksonville - they won't make it. They'll die in their cars."
"So what did you tell them?"
"'You will die in your cars.'"
"Please tell me you put some lipstick on that."
Nope. But I told them we'd think of something."
"Have you thought of something?"
"Nope." She sighed as she frowned across the toppled stones. "We need another plan."
Saint Kevin and the Blackbird
We were left on our own to explore the moss-hewn monuments of St. Kevin's legacy. While other matters loomed in the forefront of my mind, thoughts of the eccentric monk rattled around in some unused nook of my brain. Despite more pressing concerns, I found myself liking the guy. He felt most at home in nature. He had a soft spot for animals, which they seemed to sense. Yet when he would emerge from solitude he was a force to be reckoned with, a builder of the fortress known far and wide across the medieval world.
I never understood the concept of praying to saints - perhaps I'm still missing the point. But in that helpless moment, I needed to talk to a friend. And strangely, I felt like I'd found one in St. Kevin. So in that quiet corner of my brain, I had a talk with the patron saint of blackbirds. He'd sheltered many frightened souls from danger - surely a hurricane was something he could handle. I needed some advice from an expert. I needed a plan. I stared dumbly into the tumble of rocks at my feet, as if hoping the answer was spelled out in tree roots, or carried by the voices of brambles and blackbirds. I heard only our tour guide as she gathered her charges, reminding us we had run out of time.
Out of time. No help. No answers.
As I turned to go, a blackbird feather hovered briefly on the cusp of a breeze, then came to rest in my line of sight at the foot of the silent stones.
"It's practically a fortress."
By nightfall, news of "the wee hurricane" in the U.S. was the lead story on every newscast in every local pub. We had our dinner in one of them, a local watering hole with a chatty barkeep who took great pride in relating the building's long history. Weather, age and fire all had roles in the story, but where some saw ruin, others had seen opportunities. The proprietor was especially proud of the roof. "Don't let the weathered shingles fool you," he beamed. "It's practically a fortress!"
We could relate. We'd lived in our house for just two years, and at the time of purchase, it needed some work. A LOT of work. Between the roof, the doors, the windows, the fence, the garage doors, the generator - the parade of workmen seemed endless. But by the time the literal dust had cleared the finished product was - I stopped in mid-sentence as the same thought struck us both at the same time. "Which zones were evacuated?" I asked Lynn.
"A, B, and parts of C."
We were in D. "You know", I offered, "they've got the key and the alarm code anyway…."
She took the ball and ran with it. "The roof is new, there's a generator, impact glass, the garage doors are storm rated. The place is…"
I finished the sentence for her. "Practically a fortress."
Lynn turned to the barkeep. "What's your name again?"
"Paddy."
"Of course it is," she smiled. "Tell you what, Paddy. If I can borrow your wifi password, we'll keep ordering drinks."
Life charged through her phone. Soon the peat-scented air of the pub hummed with the sound of clinking glasses, fresh energy, and a crackling fire.
And while in hindsight, I realize it was probably the Guinness talking, I could have sworn I heard St. Kevin laugh.
"Ding dong, grown-up calling!"
The next two days were filled with nearly non-stop communications with Tiffany. Looking back at some of those messages, I have to laugh.
"Our house isn't childproofed. Lock the cabinets, hide the shotgun."
"Got it. We locked up the axe as well."
"Whoa. Forgot about the axe. Good call!"
"Jose's dad is getting dialysis the morning it's supposed to hit. Then he's driving back to Homestead."
"The hell he is! Tell him he's staying at our place."
"So I invited the admin from one of my Facebook groups. And her family. They're nice - you'd like them. Kids are keeping the dogs happy. Husband lowered the water level in your pool. And put oil in the generator."
Generators use oil? Awesome. Tell him thank you. And nice to meet him. Sort of."
"Pool fence down. Dog fell in. Had to dive in to get her. Glad I brought extra clothes."
One in particular jumped out at me. It was to the friend who lamented that at age 40, she needed a grown up to tell her what to do.
"Ding dong!" Lynn wrote, "Grown up calling! Pack up your man, your kids and your dogs. You're staying at our place. Call Tiff for details. Bring toilet paper."
"Not that it matters," I mused at one point, "but exactly how many people are we taking in?"
She took a deep breath and studied me with that look which told me I was better off without the details. "Well," she ventured, "remember the plaque we bought on our last trip to Ireland? The one that says '100,000 Welcomes' in Gaelic?"
I was stunned into silence. Then, for the first time in a week, I laughed.
One hundred thousand welcomes
As expected, the Irish blessing cead mile failte was a bit much. But the spirit of it was alive and well at Casa Kupkee. The final head count was eighteen people, ranging in age from two to eighty-something. Some had known each other all their lives, others had just met, thrown together by the winds of storm and circumstance. With them they brought their humor, their fears, their abuelas, their dogs, and enough alcohol to rival the storm surge from which they fled.
As they hunkered down, the mood of the messages changed from readiness to resolve. Did we have any dice? Playing cards? And how psyched were the kids to discover our nephew's Minions dinnerware! Our dogs made the rounds of the many laps from which they had to choose, and frolicked with the nine other dogs, who like their owners, now found themselves part of an unexpected pack. Surprisingly, they all seemed to roll with it, the only infraction having been committed by own young dachshund, who deftly pilfered a Cuban galleta from our youngest house guest's little hand. Our refugees treated us to news from the front, and photographs of our kitchen, now piled high with enough non-perishables to feed a small battalion. Tiffany's daughter gifted us with a drawing of a blackbird flying under a rainbow - which looked remarkably like a hurricane hunter aircraft charging through a wind speed graph.
What's that expression? Out of the mouths of babes? The crayons spoke a thousand words, none of which seemed to speak of dread or fear. Indeed the pictures sent to us seemed to portray the mood of a party rather than that of an impending natural disaster. As we stood on Galway's high street, the strains of "Blooming Heather" echoed through the damp air, courtesy of an especially talented busker. We thought of our guests - St. Kevin's modern day blackbirds, having found both roost and refuge half a world away. We had no idea what we would go home to, if anything. Yet somehow, we felt the sense of peace which comes from knowing all is unfolding exactly as it should.
Some serious cleanup
Over the next few days, reports came less frequently and with less urgency. While other parts of the state had been far less lucky, our beloved Miami had survived. We were told to brace ourselves for some serious cleanup. Our neighborhood was thrashed by tornadoes - we would return to a yard and street that looked like a giant salad gone wrong. But our house and our clinic were still standing. Our dogs and our loved ones were safe. As power was restored, and roads were cleared, our guests began trickling out of our home and back into a semblance of their normal lives. By the time door was locked for the last time, the house was cleaner than we had left it. Eighteen people and eleven dogs had left behind nothing but letters of thanks, and a fully stocked pantry. "Wow!" Lynn marvelled as she surveyed the shelves. "They brought the good toilet paper!" There were steaks in the freezer, clean sheets on the beds, and a boatload of leftover alcohol.
They had brought the good liquor as well.
But our trip was not over just yet. It was finally time to enjoy Ireland. And the first order of business was some hard core shopping for thank you gifts!
"Make that the second order of business," Lynn quipped as she headed for the hotel lobby. She was back within minutes, triumphant and smug. "Finally!"
Mr. Mime had joined the party at last.
As we crammed our suitcases full of souvenirs, Game Of Thrones kitsch, fairy garden furniture, and snarky t-shirts, Lynn pulled out a gift she had picked especially for Tiffany. On a ceramic Christmas tree ornament, an Irish blessing professed the musing of a wise, yet unknown soul:
"May the roof above us never fall in, And may the friends gathered below it never fall out."
I let it sink in before saying the only words that came to mind. "It's perfect."
"Not quite." Lynn scowled as she pulled a marker from her purse. She wrote something on the back of the ornament, then handed it back to me. "Now, it's perfect."
Painfully neat and tastefully small, the note read:
2017: The House That Irma Built
Dr. Kupkee is the lead practitioner at Sabal Chase Animal Clinic
www.sabalchaseanimalclinic.com
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| A blackbird, a rainbow, and Mr. Mime |
