September 2004
will go down in Florida's history as the worst
hurricane season since the meteorological
records were initiated in the 1880s. I thought I
was pretty smug in evacuating all the way to
Italy to do research for a novel I was writing,
having myself a delightful time as a storm
refugee, only to return to the macabre embrace
of Hurricane Jeanne.
If losing all the papaya trees was not bad
enough, I had a husband who subconsciously was
demanding my scarce attention by reverting to
his childhood. While I turned into my usual
non-communicative state of oblivion, ensconced
in the fantasy of a wild embrace in Murder by
Roses, my next release, my husband kept
interrupting me with his hurricane antics. There
is nothing more infuriating than losing my trend
of thought while writing a sexually explicit
love scene.
One would assume (erroneously, it turned out)
that a mature man who had gone through survival
training in the Boy Scouts in the mountainous
terrain of Utah, and who later graduated from
the United States Air Force Survival School, and
an ex-Viet Nam pilot, could handle a simple
destructive force like a hurricane. But once
again, I overestimated his bravery.
While Murder by Roses, starts out in a
hurricane, it seems my main protagonist handles
things with more aplomb than my main husband.
When I heard banging on the aluminum hurricane
shutters on the Florida room windows, I
naturally assumed it was the 100 miles per hour
wind, and being a hurricane veteran, I ignored
the noise. A drenched husband appeared before my
dry computer and demonically demanded to know
why I had not opened the back door. The wind had
blown it shut and since he had just taken a
shower, was caught with gusts blowing up his
dressing gown. What the devil he was doing
outside, I'll never know! He had no underwear
on, or shoes, and was caught between having to
jump over the wire fence, a perilous situation
for the family jewels, or dig in the dirt to
find the phony stone which houses the hidden
spare key. After digging up the electrical wires
he found the key and let himself in, all while I
was kissing a British lord in Sri Lanka.
Men can be such babies at times. I was having
writing difficulties with a cross-pollination of
cultures in Murder by Roses, when I heard this
blood curdling sound. Glancing up from my
screen, I saw my husband jumping around the
carpet in some sort of pilot dance, yelling that
he had stubbed his toe on a chair, and he was
positive it was broken. Mon Dieu! There is
nothing one can do for a broken toe except have
more respect for shoes.
Twenty-four hours after Hurricane Jeanne had
departed for northern Florida, I was thankful we
still had electrical power, and deeply engrossed
as to whether to let my readers have a happy
ending, or not, I heard a barrage of profanity
that would make a sailor blush. It was hubby
again, saying he had stepped in doggie doodoo.
He was convinced Zuzi, my Shih Tzu, was
culpable. Rudy, my poodle, ran into the bedroom
to hide from his master's tirade, knowing he had
not gone potty on the white carpet, but
convinced he'd get the blame. Once again, I told
my partner that if he had worn shoes, and the
peepee pads had been in the right spot, he could
have avoided "stepping in it." One has to think
ahead in hurricane season! Dogs also have a way
of manifesting their frustration at having to
stay indoors in inclement weather.
My mother, a tough Scottish lass, (who rather
than become a couch potato had volunteered to
teach English in Poland with the US Peace Corps)
told me that she would "tough it out" in her
condominium in West Palm Beach. While her phone
was still operable, I received a sheepish
announcement that after spending the night in
her bathroom, maybe she would risk driving down
to our home in Lighthouse Point, since we still
had electrical power and she was "dying for a
cup of tea." She had not wanted to drive in the
storm for fear of being blown off the road and
ending up in a tree for three days, like one of
her other Century Village neighbors.
She had filled her bathtub full of water so
that she could make herself a cup of tea. Tea to
a Scottish woman is a panacea. Even WWII stopped
during this imbibing ritual. Unable to sleep in
the tub reserved for tea breaks, she tucked her
pillow into the side of the tub and tried to get
some sleep on the floor. But since she is 5'9",
her feet were sticking out into the hallway.
Afraid they might be cut off by flying glass,
she opened her hallway door and put them in
there, but only her big toes were protected,
which left her shins vulnerable. Worried about
this exposure, she only got two hours sleep.
Later, as she was walking to her car, she
slipped on an errant roof shingle and fell down
on the cement walkway, bruising her arm. I told
her to drive down to our house where I would
patch up her bruises and contusions with a
papaya fruit because there were dozens lying on
the grass as we had lost the trees. Papayas turn
navy blue bruises into yellow ones so they are
not so noticeable. An old trick I learned from
my modeling days. But you are supposed to ingest
the pulp, not spread it on your arm like
marmalade! After playing doctor to my husband,
mother, and two frightened pets, I was able to
attend to the legal travails of my protagonist.
Talk about problems! This poor man was being
accused of murdering his wife, and I had to
write him out of it.
While putting the finishing touches on my
romantic drama, I decided that next hurricane
season I would return to Tuscany again. Somehow
I think it is easier to write novels in an
earthquake than a hurricane; but then, nothing
seems to phase me much these days, after facing
rejections from publishers and criticism of
one's work, what's a little rain!
Alinka Zyrmont
