Confessions of a Hurricane Florence refugee

“You don’t have to smell like a refugee…” – Tom Petty
(I think)

Day 5 since we left Wilmington, now better known as the island of Wilmington.

As much as I wanted to stay and gut it out, my wife and daughter were the voices of reason. So after loading two cars with the things we consider irreplaceable, it’s off to Charlotte we trudged.

Luckily, my daughter was able to lock-on a couple of motel rooms that take pets. That’s the good part. The bad part is that neither of her to pups are quite housebroken yet.

Thank you, Lord, for bestowing upon us, Your unworthy subjects, the blessings that are puppy pads.

It sucks to be me.

But to better describe how my family is cut-off from going home to Wilmington, the entire region of Southeastern North Carolina is so flooded, it just became the world’s weirdest river – 100 miles across and 4 inches deep.

I call this beast “The Florence River”.

There are a few “islands” dotting the landscape… Whiteville, Elizabethtown, Burgaw. The largest, of course, being Wilmington.

But if the worse I have to put up with is being cooped-up in a somewhat smallish motel room with a couple of unhousebroken pups, my life isn’t all that bad.

My wife, daughter and son-in-law are safe and sound; our homes are still in one piece; we have air-conditioning and hot food… and possibly best of all, we have good neighbors (with guns) who are keeping an eye on our collective homes.

Keep things in perspective.

As for us, we’re going to stay put until all those scores (if not hundreds) of rivers, creeks and streams finally crest, then subside. At a minimum, two more days of motel life.

As antsy as I am to get the hell out of here, like I said, keep all things in perspective.

Or as my wife so eloquently stated, “The is God testing your patience”.

One last thought — what’s up with all these Latinos in Charlotte? I haven’t seen this many Messicans in one place since five peso beer night at the Plaza del Toros in Tijuana.