Because our children are all grown, Hubby and I decided to sell our tiny house in New Hampshire. Last winter the snow reached the roof and the whole house iced up, and the thought of driving up there and chipping it out was overwhelming. So, we did like many other elderly have done and purchased a tiny house down in sunny Florida...a small mobile home in the sweet city of Venice near friends of mine and cousins of Hubby. Coming down to Florida takes as long as driving to the house in New Hampshire, of course that is by car versus by airplane, but we have looked forward to our forays into the warm weather. 

Alas, we were in Florida last week. The weekend days were 92 degrees, sunny and beautiful, and we put on our bathing suits to splash in the pool. I swam around using a pool noodle, Hubby lumbered and floated, not unlike the many manatees found in the waters surrounding our mobile home park. All hell broke loose on Monday when we were informed about impending Hurricane Milton.

Floridians have practically turned hurricane season legendary, festive, complete with storm shutters, generators and stockpiles of snacks. When Hurricane Milton first came along, we thought, “We’ve been through this before.” After all, we were in the state for Hurricane Ian two years ago, so we basically considered ourselves experts at this point. 

But then, the meteorologists started going crazy. Apparently, this wasn’t just any old hurricane, but Milton was hyped up as “THE big one,” the kind of storm that is stronger than anything the state has seen in over a century. They forecasted doom, destruction, and possibly the apocalypse. 

Ordered to evacuate

Then came the orders. Yes, we were ordered to evacuate. Like a responsible adult, I packed up important papers, medications, a few days’ worth of clothes, and, most importantly, a stockpile of Diet Coke. Along with half the state of Florida, we hit the road. The gas station line was long enough to rival a Black Friday sale, and as we finally filled up the tank, we nervously set off for the “safe” part of the state where Milton would spare us.  

The drive from Venice to Miami Beach usually takes about two and a half hours, but last Monday, it felt like we had entered the world’s longest parade of cars as we inched our way along “Alligator Alley,” the long stretch of highway down to Miami famous for traversing the Everglades. With the water level so high, I envisioned this road being swamped with water during the upcoming hurricane. After more than six hours, we finally rolled into Miami, long after the sun had gone down.  

 Thank goodness we had made hotel reservations at a lovely Best Western which had all of the essentials, including free breakfast which had French toast and pancakes one could make themselves along with a wide variety of toppings and whipped cream, a heated pool with waterfall, and free Wi-Fi.   

In the hotel room, flipping through the TV channels, we quickly realized that the only thing on was the “Hurricane Milton Deathwatch” on all the channels, a nonstop loop of doom and gloom with a soundtrack of howling winds. The predictions were so dramatic we half-expected the meteorologists to pop out of the screen yelling, “RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!”  They promoted the helpful advice to those who did not leave western Gulf Florida to “grab a permanent marker and write your name and social security number on your arm for easy identification” when the body was later found dead amidst the other hurricane damage.  This “friendly reminder” got repeated so often that even my friends, who had stubbornly refused to leave, choosing to camp out in their concrete bunker homes with boarded up windows started to reconsider their life choices. Apparently, the thought of someone having to ID their wrinkly, old bodies was enough to snap them into action, and they, too, headed down to Miami. Nine hours later, they finally arrived, only to find out that the only available hotel rooms left cost a mind-boggling $500 a night. 

 Still on vacation???

Hubby and I had a blast in Miami, technically we were still on vacation in Florida. We stumbled upon a lovely casino that still had penny slot machines—penny slots! Missing all of that penny action I had so often played at Mohegan Sun, this was a Godsend to take our minds off the massive impending Category 5 hurricane which was predicted to wipe central Florida off the map. Free Diet Coke was abundant, and we also enjoyed “2 for $2.00” hotdogs at the casino snack bar. Upon registering as new patrons, they handed us $25 in free play money each, which we, being the frugal gambling masterminds that we are, played super conservatively. We only used their money and managed to stretch it for a few hours. Fortunately, the casino kept offering that same $25 free slot machine money every day for five days straight! Hubby and I made it back three times, grinning like kids at Disneyland. Nothing says “great vacation” more than winning money!  Raking in cash while sipping Diet Coke and munching on budget-friendly hotdogs made it a lot easier to forget about the whole “Hurricane Milton might blow us off the map” situation.  

The hurricane blew through Wednesday evening, and my initial annoyance was the fact that the weather news monopolized all of the television stations and I was annoyed I was unable to get my “Survivor” fix.  

By Thursday afternoon, we learned that the hurricane had not produced the storm surge predicted for our area.  If it had, our trailer would have been submerged in salt water, but when we drove home, we found little damage.  

Only a little flooded

Our neighborhood streets were only a little flooded, and, in true Florida fashion, caution was needed because there were a few alligators swimming around having escaped their own hurricane chaos in the nearby waterways.  

We were incredibly lucky that our little mobile home came through the storm completely unscathed! Our yard, on the other hand, was littered with storm debris. There were pieces of siding, roofing, shattered windows, and rogue flowerpots strewn all around, courtesy of homes that hadn’t been so fortunate. Several others lost their carport roofs, which in some cases then flipped over to rip off entire roofs. Ours was safe, because Hubby had skillfully tied our carport roof to our golf cart, and miraculously, that little golf cart held its ground like a hurricane superhero.  

The only real damage was our tall statue of Saint Francis which had toppled over and broken into pieces, with all the little resin animals scattered around him, looking like they were in mourning for their fallen protector. Our once-abundant, lush green grass and all our outdoor plants were now a crispy shade of brown, courtesy of the salty spray that Milton had graciously sprinkled on everything. Yes, they were dead, but I was still alive, and unlike Saint Francis I was standing tall. I had survived a doomsday scenario. Milton, oh Milton...you couldn’t take me down!