The dream-track of up The Gulf Stream seems a mite off for Irma, but it’s still Friday morning. I have a lousy dream fivecast rating: the only other one of which I have written happened December 5-6 overnight of 1970. On December 9 of that year I awoke to the unmistakable sound of a B-40 Rocket Propelled Grenade having its arming-pin removed with a sharp metalic clink. Hey, I thought, rising from the second-tier pallet upon which I reposed in that joke of a bunker at hill 25 just between Que Son City and LZ Baldy in Quang Nam, South Vietnam. My dream had forecast moarters. But I mused as I lifted my head off the 12/12 (inch) beam that bordered my hasty bed: that’s not a morter, it’s a **&ing B-40@#$%^& and my world went deaf and blind just after a brilliant white flash that had the unmistakable taste of cordite way back in my throat. Quick way to die, that.
This dream of the present still can be made whole. Hurricane Andrew was a measly little Category 1 or 2 lazing past The Bahamas when it encountered The Gulf Stream and then plowed through Homestead – just South of Miami – with 150+ miles per hour devastation. I still think Irma, since it is not coming perpendicular to Florida’s East Coast, still can hitch a ride up the stream and spare my tender self – and more importantly, garden – but as previously noted, I have been wrong before. And I fervently (ok, not quite fervent just yet) pray wrong again.
Ya’ll be well. And tell some one (or twos or threes) you love them.