Facing Milton

We did everything right.

Or so we thought.

We worked hard for decades, saved for our retirement, left behind the blizzards of the northeast, and bought a beautiful property in Florida.

"Central Florida is the safest place to be," our realtor assured us. "You don't need to worry about strong storms here."

"Hurricanes aren't a problem in this area. It's the coast you have to worry about."

"But just to be extra cautious, these homes are built to withstand a Category 3 hurricane."

We felt confident we made the right choice when we bought our new home.

In many ways, Florida surprised us. We had never really considered moving here. We loved the four seasons of the East Coast and New England. The first snow of the year always astonished us with its quiet transformation of our surroundings. We miss our annual drives in October through the yellow and red autumn hills of New York, Massachusetts, and Vermont.

However, several fortuitous events, including lifelong friends moving here, led us to a lakeside community outside Orlando.

Part of a new development near Lake Apopka, with lakeside walking trails, lush gardens, wildlife, and birds of all kinds—herons, storks, and every color of ibis you can imagine—this area has proved to be a special place to live.

We even have a nesting pair of bald eagles across the street from our house.

The weather is perfect. A few hot summer months, and then heaven comes. Nine months of blue skies, gentle rains, and sunshine, sunshine, sunshine.

It is the Sunshine State, after all.

We have grown to love the Florida landscape, which has that special look of the American South: tall, lean pine trees, majestic oaks laden with Spanish moss, flowers all year long, and colorful songbirds that migrate from as far away as Canada and Argentina.

We enjoy our new neighbors who are from places as diverse as Alaska, Michigan, Cuba, Puerto Rico, and Haiti. We've made good new friends here and feel proud to open our home when family and old friends from New York and California visit.

Life is good. We are grateful. We know we are fortunate. And blessed beyond measure.

We count our blessings every day.

We also grieve when we see the destruction caused by storms and fires on the news almost weekly. We worry about the fierceness of climate-caused weather patterns.

We do our part to help with solar panels and an all-electric car.

Then, this week, we hear news we never imagined:

A Category 5 hurricane is coming right at us.

It will make landfall very soon.

Hurricane Milton will likely be the most destructive and dangerous hurricane to hit Central Florida in more than 100 years.

(To add to the astonishing and grim news: Milton follows just one week after Helene left devastation from Florida north through the Carolinas and beyond.)

What's going on?

Can this really be happening?

This morning The New York Times called Milton a "Monster Storm".

Will our home be able to withstand the hurricane?

Category 5 seems unthinkable.

We consider evacuation. We weigh all our options. We do our research once again.

It reminds us that no matter how much we plan, find out, make informed decisions, and do our best, life brings unforeseeable challenges.

It can even bring disaster.

Whatever we may enjoy today could be gone tomorrow.

We are small in the face of the powerful forces of nature.

Uncertainty is ever-present.

Watching the news this week has us worried. Both coasts are in danger of storm surges and flooding. Many neighborhoods, even inland, are under mandatory evacuation orders. Elderly residents who live in mobile homes are especially vulnerable. Downtown Orlando has some areas prone to flooding, as they were built long before the hurricane housing codes enforced since the 1990s.

Last night, comfortable on our couches watching the news, we bolted to upright sitting positions when the latest predictions foresee 2 to 3 feet of rain in 24 hours.

Have you ever heard of such a thing?

This morning, on what will be the last of our daily walks for some days, we share our worries with neighbors.

We've all considered evacuation.

We've all decided to stay and shelter in our homes.

And as good neighbors do, everyone offers help.

"Do you need anything?"

"Are you ready? Everything secured in the yard?"

"Can we pick up groceries for you?"

"We have extra bedrooms, and you're welcome to stay with us if anything happens..."

Good, kind, neighborly folk.

We reassure each other that somehow we'll get through this storm.

We'll keep in touch with text messages.

We'll check up on each other.

We'll weather this storm together.

This will be our last time to see each other for a while. We return to our house and continue preparing for the storm.

We bring in patio furniture, potted plants, and decorative solar lights.

We have a few hours left to complete the recommended safety measures. We fill pots with water, find the flashlights, and get out the first aid kit.

Is there anything else we need to do? Are we going to be safe in this house?

Then the doorbell rings.

A quiet and kind neighbor, a college professor from India, smiles shyly.

"I brought you avocados," he says, handing me a bag of seven gorgeous green fruit from his garden.

"Seven is a lucky number," I say.

He smiles.

"Stay safe," he says.

"You, too," I reply.

And we each take shelter in our homes, awaiting the storm.

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Post-Storm Note

This story was initially published in October the night Milton made landfall in Florida. At that time, we did not know what would happen.

Today, I am happy to report that we and our neighbors weathered the storm safely.

The damage outside, however, was dramatic: fallen trees, uprooted bushes, broken fences, blown-away stop signs, and a leveled shoreline along Lake Apopka. In many ways, the neighborhood was not recognizable for weeks.

Two months later, thanks to an extensive and organized statewide clean-up effort and Mother Nature's restorative use of time, the neighborhood is back to normal. The lakeshore is green again with willowy grasses and reeds. Songbirds have arrived from the north, and their morning chorus rivals a symphony.

Nature has restored the order and calm that she briefly and fiercely interrupted.

We enjoy the tranquility while it lasts.

We feel ready to face whatever storms may come.

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