It was the car’s first oil change and checkup. A cold front came through–rare for September. Skies were deceptively blue and beautiful.
Sterile customer waiting rooms typically had libations, pastries, and uncomfortable chairs. It was rare, for me anyway, to strike up conversations, while waiting. Today was different.
Ben, a personable young man, was a rock-climbing instructor. His family was stationed at the nearby, Navy base.
Donna, was an assistant pastor at a local church. Her responsibilities involved church education and outreach.
The thrust of our conversations revealed commonality–we’d all belonged to organizations–church or military, past or present. Sometimes, bonds formed were greater, than family ties.
Through our collective experiences, we’d learned to get along with others of different backgrounds; because we were part of something greater than ourselves.
“What was it like experiencing a hurricane?” Ben asked. “It was hectic. Frightening–even. Evacuations were tense, unpleasant,” I answered.
Gasoline prices spiked the past week, and were still climbing. Hotels in Northwest Florida were filling with hurricane evacuees. Bottled water was scarce in local stores.
“Why were hurricanes named after bad people?” Donna asked. “Ivan, the hurricane, was terrible–like its namesake.”
The name Irma, would forever have bad connotations–just like Katrina.
“If there was ever a hurricane Adolph, we resolved to leave immediately–no questions asked.”