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I had done all I could to prepare, which felt as futile as those duck (under your desk) and cover (the back of your neck) drills we used to do in school to prepare for nuclear war. I’d set out candles, fed the flashlights fresh batteries, cleared off the patio, filled up water containers, and prayed for the forgiveness of my sins, which took a while. All that was left was the fretting.

Like most of Florida, my husband and I were in wait mode. We numbly watched Dorian’s cone of destruction move in slow-motion horror as it devoured the northern Bahamas, and threatened to wobble our way. Just when I had eaten almost all of the hurricane snacks, and was going to start on the rum, I literally stumbled across the perfect hurricane distraction.



While in my garage, following a reporter’s advice to practice manually opening my electric garage door in the dark in case the power goes out, I bumped into a roll of fabric leaning against the wall. For several months, this roll — two yards left from my barstool-cushion project — had been standing there mocking me. “You’re never going to get to this are you?” It said daily as I drove in.

“Who are you kidding, you and your big home-décor plans.” “Just you wait!” I’d mentally answer. “I’ll get to you someday.

” Someday when I’m caught up at work, and the groceries are bought, and the laundry is done, and the bills are paid, and I’ve worked out, and have no one to call back and nowhere to be, and can’t wat.

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