Hurricanes

Summer brings us diplomas, from kindergarten to doctorates; dewy-eyed brides; bathing suits dragged out and tried on, with mirrors consulted; and an increase in sales of diet drinks.

No one pays the least bit of attention to the potential disaster waiting up the road.

Sure as God made little green apples, hurricane season is on the horizon.
Not to worry. Television weathercasters love to talk about hurricanes. As soon as a bit of weather stirs up off the west coast of Africa, they manage to get all solemn-faced and delight in scaring the bejesus out of us as they track potential storm paths on their green board. The 6 o’clock news never had so many viewers.
In those long-ago days before TV, before cellphones, before airplanes flew into the center of those monster storms to gather scientific data, we knew something was certainly wrong when, on a beautiful summer day, the sky turned yellow and the wind picked up.

It was 1940 when a devastating hurricane hit Savannah. There was no warning. We had rented a cottage at Tybee Island for Labor Day weekend and were unpacking the car when we were told to leave. A hurricane was coming, and the island was being evacuated.

By the time we had gathered everything together and put it back in the car, the sky had darkened. There was a solid line of vehicles on the two-lane road leading across the bridges and marshland back to Savannah. The tide was so high that water covered the road, reaching the middle of our 1935 Chevrolet’s hubcaps. Our house on 52nd Street was safe from flooding because it was on high ground, but there was an oak tree out front that we feared would fall and crush our roof.

Daddy put the car in our garage, and we hurriedly unpacked once again. We were getting to be experts. Making sure we could hear the radio, we huddled in the back of the house. Next door, Mrs. Ross’ garage roof went sailing down the driveway. The wind howled and screamed, and the rain, that fine maniacal mist of water, beat against everything like water from a fire hose. We stuffed the windows with bath towels. To no avail. Water still oozed down. The electricity was out.

Then there was silence. We were in the eye. Timidly, we went outside. It was a mess.

Too soon, the wind and rain began again, this time even stronger and more serious. Again, we huddled in the back hallway, worried stiff about that dang oak tree.

At long last, it was over. Where the hurricane went, we didn’t know or care. Our street was flooded. We put on our bathing suits and went swimming in the street, which must have had zillions of germs. We could not have cared less. It was exciting. Mr. Dean even took us for a ride in his motorboat.
We had no idea how much our city had suffered, but we later learned that many of its ancient oaks had fallen, just tumped over.

These days, hurricanes are tracked before they realize it themselves.
However, what I will always remember most is riding in Mr. Dean’s boat, sitting there with wet hair and a wet bathing suit after swimming in the flooded street. That water was probably polluted beyond calculation.

But who cared?

Life was sweet.

Annelore Harrell’s journey is a tapestry woven with fascinating experiences and extraordinary accomplishments. Even at 92 in 2025, Annelore’s energy and zest for life continue to inspire. Annelore Harrell’s story is a testament to living with passion, resilience, and an unquenchable thirst for adventure.