Waiting for Gustav

Note: This blog entry was originally published in 2008 on another blog I had at the time, but I am republishing it here on Georgia Southern Exposure in order to also republish (Yes, I know that's a split infinitive) my husband's response, since it was recently lost when the other blog ceased to exist, for some strange reason. Chet was quite upset. As he said,  and I paraphrase, "My one great literary accomplishment is now gone forever." Never being one to enjoy seeing him suffer, regardless of his many faults, I decided that I would ensure that his great literary accomplishment lived on, at least for a bit longer, though I have no control over the whims of the World Wide Web. So, here you go:

Waiting for Gustav 

My darling hubby and I reside in Southwest Louisiana, which is located within a region called Acadiana and right smack dab in the middle of the “Heart of Cajun Country.” It’s definitely a colorful place to live, with its eclectic blend of cultures; zesty cuisine; drive-thru daiquiri shops; endless string of festivals in celebration of everything from rice to frogs to Mardi Gras; mosquitoes the size of 747's; weird creatures called nutria rats, which try to pass themselves off as beavers; and alligators that occasionally wander out of the murky swamp waters to stroll nonchalantly through neighborhoods, devouring family pets in passing.

Of course, that’s not all we have here in Southwest Louisiana. We also have hurricanes. And on Monday, September 1, a big, burly, blustery fellow named Gustav came roaring out of the Gulf to pay us a visit. Granted, Gustav wasn’t as destructive as his ugly stepsister Katrina, who almost wiped New Orleans off the map a few years ago, but, as hurricanes go, Gustav was still a decidedly unpleasant visitor. And to make his visit even more stressful, I was forced to endure it with Chet. Then again, in all honesty, perhaps even worse than having to endure the actual storm with Chet was getting through the days leading up to Gustav’s arrival. Those were days to try a woman’s soul.

Before I continue, however, allow me to clarify one thing: I do love my husband, even though he’s a Yankee and has his share of faults. On the other hand, I must admit that one’s love can be sorely tested when one has the full wrath of Mother Nature barreling toward one like a heat-seeking missile and one’s beloved will not even lift his behind off the sofa.

Okay, now that I’ve clarified that point, on with the story, which began like this: Several days prior to Gustav’s arrival, I switched on the Weather Channel, which is part of my morning routine, to see if the day was going to be hot and muggy, hotter and muggier than the day before, or the hottest and muggiest day of the year; and, as a result, I learned that Gustav, whose projected path had been rather iffy up until then, was now plowing across the Gulf on a bulls-eye collision course with the coast of Louisiana. So, having been taught at my daddy’s knee that it’s better to have something and not need it than to need something and not have it, as soon as Chet stumbled from bed around 11:30 A.M, I said, “Chet, we need to get ready for Gustav.”

“What was Chet’s reaction?” you ask.

Well, my darling hubby’s reaction was to snatch the sports section of The Advocate (my newspaper of choice) off the dining room table, walk into the living room, plop down on the sofa in front of the television, shake the paper open as he pressed the remote, and turn on ESPN. Then he mumbled, “It’s too early.” 

Too early? I thought. The heck it is. “Why?” I then made the mistake of asking.

Holding the sports section up in front of his face, Chet replied, “Because I have a feeling Gustav is going to make landfall somewhere else.” He moved the paper just enough to reveal one eyeball. “So, see, you’re worrying about nothing.”

And why, I wondered, after almost 17 years of marriage, was I just now learning that my husband was psychic? “Chet,” I said, “we need to begin making preparations for Gustav now.”

In response, Chet rattled the newspaper and mumbled something that sounded like “quasi smurf gobbly goop como usti poop,” which was probably Russian for “Leave me the bleep alone and let me read the paper.”

It was at that point I experienced an epiphany of sorts and realized that if we were going to survive the fury of Gustav’s onslaught, it would be entirely up to me to make certain that we were as prepared as anyone could be for something, well, as potentially destructive as a hurricane. So, realization faced, I grabbed my purse, marched out of the house, climbed into my trusty Tundra, and drove to Wal-Mart, where I stocked up on batteries, water, and non-perishable foods. Then, once back home and after checking on Chet, who was still encamped in front of the TV, I hustled about the yard, taking down wind-chimes and flowerpots and storing yard furniture and ornaments in out-of-the-way places (Chet has never grasped our need of a storage shed), for as I’d learned from hurricane-hardened neighbors, anything could become a deadly projectile when flung about by hurricane-force winds. Next, I moved the Dogloo, which isn’t light by any means, onto the covered patio and turned over the yard swing, after which I went back inside and put batteries in all the lights and fans I had purchased on sale the previous post-hurricane season. Then, looking around and deciding that I had done all I could do at the moment, and since I was feeling a bit antsy, to say the least, I decided to ride my bike around the neighborhood to work off some tension.

 It was a decision I soon regretted, however, since as I peddled about the neighborhood, I saw countless other husbands outside boarding up windows instead of sitting inside on the sofa and telling their wives they were worrying about nothing; and, admittedly, seeing these industrious husbands made me more than a little envious. Once back home, envy crawling under my skin, I marched into the house and told Chet exactly how I felt; but since he was snoring behind the newspaper, I somehow doubted he’d heard a word I said.

As the next day dawned and after Chet had stumbled from bed, I again tried to drive home the seriousness of the impending situation by informing him that the Weather Channel had shown footage of Gustav’s wiping out yet another entire island on its march across the Atlantic and into the Gulf.

“What did Chet do this time?” you ask.

One guess.

“Well,” you say, “I guess he finally took the threat seriously?”

Nope, I hate to tell you this, but your guess is way off base. What Chet did was the same thing he’d done the day before and would do right up until approximately 12 hours before Gustav came howling ashore to bulldoze its way up through Morgan City, then Houma, then Baton Rouge, and on into Lafayette: he snatched the sports section from out of the newspaper, walked into the living room, plopped down in front of the TV, pressed the remote to tune in ESPN, and told me that he had a feeling I was worrying about nothing.

“Wait,” you say, “but you said he continued this routine ‘up to approximately 12 hours before Gustav came ashore,’ so what did he do at that point?”

Well, it was at that point that Chet obviously decided his psychic intuition was a bit rusty, and although I had never thought I’d see the day, he actually got off the sofa long enough to go fill sandbags at the sandbag place (I don’t know what it’s called), bring them home and allow me to unload them from the truck and place them in strategic points about the house while he got in his SUV and drove to Wal-Mart to stock up on beer. Plus, when our good friend and neighbor, Marshall Bardelmeier, located an extra generator and brought it over for us to use when the power went off, which it surely would do, Chet got an extension cord out of the hall closet and placed it on the floor by the sofa, where it’d be within easy reach to plug in the TV. 

Of course, Gustav is now behind us, and I’m pleased to report that our house suffered only minor damage; but Hurricane Ike is threatening to enter the Gulf, so I’m waiting to hear what kind of vibes Chet is picking up this time. Not that he’s told me yet, but when he does, I’ll let you know.