Mark Lane: Lucked out after Milton, despite the oak on the roof

I found myself, Sharpie in hand, the day before landfall, writing the name of another hurricane on a piece of plywood, being sure to include the year for future reference — “Milton 2024.” Plywood hadn’t gone up over my windows since 2022.

The same square of plywood has been protecting its designated window since 2004. Its top inscription attests to this: “Francis 2004.” (A regrettable misspelling. I was in a hurry.) Earlier, I had not put up window plywood for Hurricane Charley but had a close call. I pledged to up my hurricane-prep routine to include plywooding next time. Surprisingly, the next time arrived only three weeks later. That’s why Hurricane Frances gets top billing.

This being Northeastern Coastal Florida, four other names and four other years follow underneath. The last line was “Ian 2022.” Hurricane Milton brought the lineup to six. A number that strikes me as excessive.

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I am not one to put up plywood at the first sign of a worrisome storm path. I’ll bring in bird feeders and yard flamingos at the second or third storm advisory. But if I’m inspired to pull out the hurricane plywood from the deepest recesses of garage storage, it’s only because I’m in a full-out Weather Channel-watching, emergency-preparedness state of mind. Batteries will be bought, water bottles filled, and vermouth replenished.

My attitude toward storm prep sharpened again in 2022 after Hurricane Ian, which saw a nearby tornado. A small tornado, but yes, a neighborhood tornado, which meant that I had no electricity for seven days.

I always tell people it was like camping except we knew where our stuff was. This was false good humor. I was hot and miserable and would drive my car aimlessly around town just to feel air conditioning again.

This time, as soon as I saw a yellow blob forming by the Yucatan Peninsula on the National Hurricane Center’s hurricane map, I gathered a pile of chargers and batteries. These included a solar panel, a battery the size of a toaster and a power-tool-battery-powered lantern that could light up a stage production. I was prepared for what I knew was coming.

But it turns out every hurricane is different. And the thing you prepare for may not be the thing that happens.

Even though it sounded like my house was being sprayed by a firehose the night of the hurricane, my electricity shut down only briefly. My pile of portable power technology sat unused. Instead, the problem was trees. Trees I hadn’t given a second thought to. Trees that weathered past storms without complaint. But trees that keeled over this time. One came to rest on the garage roof, making a sound like a ceremonial cannon shot. Another had its fall caught by another tree but now leans at a precarious angle.

The roof tree was a laurel oak. Laurel oaks live about 50 years, some more, some less. And since it sprouted sometime around the 1970s, a dramatic storm death was an understandable exit from its customary spot in the yard and its life as a tree.

This did not only happen in my overgrown yard. Up and down my street, venerable, reliable half-century oaks keeled over, uprooted and split. Trees that had been neighborhood landmarks for as long as I’ve lived here lay on roofs, power lines, lawns and roads.

Some neighborhoods had water events; mine had an oak event. I knew it was safe to go outside when I heard chainsaws revving in the distance, even as the rain was still dripping.

Still, no flooding. No roof leaks. And when I pause from cutting fallen oak pieces, I cool down in air conditioning and head for the refrigerator. What luxurious living post-storm!

After the worst storm here since Hurricane Charley, a dry home with electricity counts as great good luck. Even in a house with an impressive laurel oak on the roof.

Mark Lane is a News-Journal columnist. His email is [email protected].