The pharmacist tells me, though, that if I have to go to another state I can visit one of the stores in their chain and get a month’s supply. She can’t just give them to me now.
Our daughter and son-in-law have already been here. They dropped by two hours ago from down the street, in case we hadn’t turned on the TV this morning — and we hadn’t. It’s on now, though. They want to check out how doddering we are this morning and figure out whether we’re capable of making yet another evacuation alone, just a few days short of the seventh anniversary of the arrival of Katrina on our shores.
Cliff is ready to start boarding up our windows so he can get that done before he has to do theirs, but we convince him we can handle it if need be. After Katrina, I’d told my husband we were entirely too old to wrestle plywood in place, and he spent a fortune on real hurricane shutters for the front and accordion-pleated, light metal covers that screw into place on tracks for our huge windows in the back.
I sit down to get a start on this column in case I’m not here to write one Tuesday, and my husband makes a run for bottled water, and the phone rings.
It’s a cousin from Texas who’s in Pass Christian, and the latest news is that Isaac will make landfall between there and Mobile. She’s visiting at her daughter’s boyfriend’s house on the beach, and he wants to get her out. She’s a long-term patient whose cancer is now in remission and things on the Mississippi coast won’t be good for her should the electricity go out and the stress rev up.
At the pumps, everyone in this neighborhood has come out of the woodwork — or their churches — since I went to the drugstore and the ATM. There are so many people that the pumps are beginning to malfunction, but my husband gets behind a fellow who’s filling up and heading to Destin, which, he says, isn’t in Isaac’s path at all: “The storm is definitely gonna hit New Orleans.“
Bob Breck has now declared that Isaac will develop into a category four and that we should all leave in the morning. But in which direction? My sister’s in Alabama, or the cousins’ in east Texas?
We’ll know in the morning. And you’ll know, by Wednesday, whether New Orleans is under water again.
NolaVie columnist Bettye Anding is a former editor of the Living section of The Times Picayune, for which she wrote “Silver Threads” until her retirement. Email comments to her at firstname.lastname@example.org