Hurricane Season Quotes

To be the other woman is to be a season that is always about to end, when the air is flowered with jasmine and peach, and the weather day after day is flawless, and the forecast is hurricane.

I need to start using a hurricane naming system for my hangovers,” he mumbles, stretching out on the couch. “I’m calling this one Abby. She’s a total whore.

People don't live in New Orleans because it is easy. They live here because they are incapable of living anywhere else in the just same way.

There are cities that get by on their good looks, offer climate and scenery, views of mountains or oceans, rockbound or with palm trees; and there are cities like Detroit that have to work for a living, whose reason for being might be geographical but whose growth is based on industry, jobs. Detroit has its natural attractions: lakes all over the place, an abundance of trees and four distinct seasons for those who like variety in their weather, everything but hurricanes and earth-quakes. But it’s never been the kind of city people visit and fall in love with because of its charm or think, gee, wouldn’t this be a nice place to live.

The first flash of color always excites me as much as the first frail, courageous bloom of spring. This is, in a sense, my season--sometimes warm and, when the wind blows an alert, sometimes cold. But there is a clarity about September. On clear days, the sun seems brighter, the sky more blue, the white clouds take on marvelous shapes; the moon is a wonderful apparition, rising gold, cooling to silver; and the stars are so big. The September storms--the hurricane warnings far away, the sudden gales, the downpour of rain that we have so badly needed here for so long--are exhilarating, and there's a promise that what September starts, October will carry on, catching the torch flung into her hand.

Este mundo es de los vivos, pontificó; y si te apendejas, te aplastan.

He will come with a mouth full of forevers and skin as sweet as spring time. He will kiss the places that hurt and will tell you the scars are beautiful. He will cover every inch of you in words he's learned and dress you in the colors of every season and he will not be the one. He will feel like a hurricane and you'll wonder how you will ever recover and rebuild. But you will. You always will. And you'll realize he is not the one.

So there are pics of Tucker’s mighty wang on the internet?” “I haven’t been tagged on Instagram yet, so I’m hopeful they aren’t out there. But thanks for calling my dick mighty. We appreciate that.” Amusement colors his words. “We? As in you and your penis?” “Yup,” he says cheerfully. I snuggle deeper under the covers. “You have a name for your penis?” “Doesn’t everyone? Guys put a name on everything that’s important to them—cars, dicks. One of my teammates in junior hockey named his stick, which was dumb because sticks break all the time. He’d gone through twelve of them by the end of the season.” “What were the names?” “That’s the thing. He just kept adding a number to the end, like iPhone 6, iPhone 7, except in his case it was Henrietta 1, Henrietta 2, et cetera.” I snicker. “He should’ve used the hurricane naming convention.” “Darlin’, he wasn’t smart enough to come up with two names, let alone twelve.

I'm always amazed at how 'We The People' come together to assist one another during Hurricane Season or any other calamity. The beauty of human compassion always staggers me and reminds me of how divine we truly are. However, It shouldn't take a disaster, natural or otherwise, to remind us of our collective humanity.

Automn ill and adored You die when the hurricane blows in the roseries When it has snowed In the orchard trees Poor automn Dead in whiteness and riches Of snow and ripe fruits Deep in the sky The sparrow hawks cry Over the sprites with green hair dwarfs Who've never been loved Inthe far tree-lines The stags are groaning And how I love O season how I love your rumbling The falling fruits that no one gathers The wind in the forest that are tumbling All their tears in automn leaf by leaf The leaves You press A crowd That flows The life That goes

I ALMOST FELT A WEIRD POWER OVER MOTHER DURING SUCH TIME. SHE HAD A HOLD ON ME, AT LEAST. AND HER GRIP FELT LIKE SHE WOULD HANG ON NO MATTER WHAT I YANKED HER THROUGH. BY THIS TIME IT WAS HURRICANE SEASON.

Because I live in south Florida I store cans of black beans and gallons of water in my closet in preparation for hurricane season. I throw a hurricane party in January. You’re my only guest. We play Marco Polo in bed. The sheets are wet like the roof caved in. There’s a million of me in you. You try to count me as I taste the sweat on the back of your neck. I call you Sexy Sexy, and we do everything twice. After, still sweating, we drink Crystal Light out of plastic water bottles. We discuss the pros and cons of vasectomies. It’s not invasive you say. I wrap the bedsheet around my waist. Minor surgery you say. You slur the word surgery, like it’s a garnish on a dish you just prepared. I eat your hair until you agree to no longer talk about vasectomies. We agree to have children someday, and that they will be beautiful even if they’re not. As I watch your eyes grow heavy like soggy clothes, I tell you When I grow up I’m going to be a famous writer. When I’m famous I’ll sign autographs on Etch-A-Sketches. I’ll write poems about writing other poems, so other poets will get me. You open your eyes long enough to tell me that when you grow up, you’re going to be a steamboat operator. Your pores can never be too clean you say. I say I like your pores just fine. I say Your pores are tops. I kiss you with my whole mouth, and you fall asleep next to my molars. In the morning, we eat french toast with powdered sugar. I wear the sugar like a mustache. You wear earmuffs and pretend we’re in a silent movie. I mouth Olive juice, but I really do love you. This is an awesome hurricane party you say, but it comes out as a yell because you can’t gauge your own volume with the earmuffs on. You yell I want to make something cute with you. I say Let me kiss the insides of your arms. You have no idea what I just said, but you like the way I smile.

They say the place is hot, that it won't be long before they send in the marines to restore order in the region. They say the heat's driven the locals crazy, that it's not normal - May and not a single drop of rain - and that the hurricane season's coming hard, that it must be bad vibes, jinxes, causing all that bleakness: decapitated bodies, maimed bodies, rolled-up, bagged-up bodies dumped on the roadside or in hastily dug graves on the outskirts of town.

Me? Rebuild" I shook my head."First off, I don't know anything about construction or reconstruction. And second, have you been down there? Have you seen it? So many people haven't moved back or rebuilt, and I totally get it. Why invest all that time and money when each hurricane season brings a new threat?" Aimee regarded me with a steady blue gaze. "Why build skyscrapers in San Francisco that might be knocked down by an earthquake? Or why build farms in Kansas and Oklahoma that might get blown away by a tornado?" She snorted, and it seemed so uncharacteristic for the elegant old woman that I almost laughed. "Where did they want us to go, anyway? I figure if we're still breathing, then we're meant to keep going. So we rebuild. We start over. It's just what we do.

Was Superstorm Sandy caused by greenhouse warming of the planet? In a word, no. Individual storms arise from specific conditions in the atmosphere. Since records have been kept, hurricanes have varied in number and intensity each season with cycles going up and coming down. The temptation to attribute any specific weather event to global warming distracts us from considering and adopting adaptive strategies, such as improving and expanding irrigation for agriculture and the water supply for cities, that will serve us well when climate changes inevitably arrives on our doorstep.

Hijos de mis hijas, mis nietos; hijos de mis hijos, sepa su chingada madre.

Eso es lo que dicen las mujeres del pueblo: que no hay tesoro ahí dentro, que no hay oro ni plata ni diamantes ni nada más que un dolor punzante que se niega a disolverse.

Lily wondered if Jesus’s cause suffered more because of his enemies or his helpers.

She felt like she needed to both run a mile and go back to sleep for the next three hours.

Bert, a slow moving tropical storm that had spent the past few days wandering around the Bahamas like a dog looking to do its business. Circle once, circle twice, and squat. Now the storm had settled over Cockroach Cay, prompting Sonny to conclude that renting a sailboat during hurricane season, while exciting and dangerous, was too much fun for him. He was glad they were still at the dock.

Dicen que en realidad nunca murió, porque las brujas nunca mueren tan fácil. Dicen que en el último momento, antes de que los muchachos aquellos la apuñalaran, ella alcanzó a lanzar un conjuro para convertirse en otra cosa: en un lagarto o un conejo que corrió a refugiarse a lo más profundo del monte. O en el milano gigante que apareció en el cielo días después del asesinato: un animal enorme que volaba en círculos sobre los sembradíos y que luego se posaba sobre las ramas de los árboles a mirar con ojos colorados a la gente que pasaba debajo, como con ganas de abrir el pico y hablarles.

Indigenous History and Nonfiction Everything You Know About Indians Is Wrong, by Paul Chaat Smith Decolonizing Methodologies, by Linda Tuhiwai Smith Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, edited by Gary Clayton Anderson and Alan R. Woodworth Being Dakota, by Amos E. Oneroad and Alanson B. Skinner Boarding School Blues, edited by Clifford E. Trafzer, Jean A. Keller, and Lorene Sisquoc Masters of Empire, by Michael A. McDonnell Like a Hurricane: The Indian Movement from Alcatraz to Wounded Knee, by Paul Chaat Smith and Robert Allen Warrior Boarding School Seasons, by Brenda J. Child They Called It Prairie Light, by K. Tsianina Lomawaima To Be a Water Protector, by Winona LaDuke Minneapolis: An Urban Biography, by Tom Weber

And Yesenia also knew, as she drowned in the old woman’s furious eyes, that Grandma despised her with every ounce of her being and in that very moment she was putting a curse on Yesenia, and in the faintest of voices Yesenia begged for forgiveness and explained that it had all been for her, but it was too late: once again, Grandma hit Yesenia where it hurt most, dying right there, trembling with hate in the arms of her eldest granddaughter.

I will always be the other woman. I disappear for a time like the moon in daylight, then rise at night all mother-of-pearl so that a man’s upturned face, watching, will have reflected on it the milk of longing. And though he may leave, memory will perfect me. One day the light may fall in a certain way on Penelope’s hair, and he will pause wildly… but when she turns, it will only be his wife, to whom white sheets simply mean laundry— even Nausikaä in her silly braids thought more washing linen than of him, preferring Odysseus clean and oiled to that briny, unkempt lion I would choose. Let Dido and her kind leap from cliffs for love. My men will moan and dream of me for years… desire and need become the same animal in the silken dark. To be the other woman is to be a season that is always about to end, when the air is flowered with jasmine and peach, and the weather day after day is flawless, and the forecast is hurricane.

For now, she would dance among the garden. When azaleas bloom in winter. When hurricanes come in fall. Maybe the paint was not so much these out-of-season moments, but more what was growing in between them. The clumsy grasp to keep summer's blooms in winter would inevitably fail. And yet hope always came rising up, resurrected from the frozen ground. For as garden turns to garden, flowers turn to dust, and glory goes to glory, the changes are within us. And maybe beauty's greatest achievement isn't in the staying... but that in its return, again and again, it paints the eternal---all the beautiful things that will never fade.

I went to the railing and looked out over the sea. It had been fussing earlier in the day, but now it lay greasy and hushed. 'You got a tremendous prospect from up here, Brother Assembly.' 'Aye. Two evenings hence, for instance, I noted thy schooner passing westward. I also saw a cutter at the same time, a low and black-hulled cutter, British from the look of her, beating eastward beyond Vandyke's. She kept the island betwixt herself and thee, and sailed on into yon flat ugly yellow clouds.' He nodded to the east. I got a crawly feeling between my shoulders, like I'd been hunting a panther and discovered it had been hunting me. 'Well, then,' I said, 'I guess I'd best be shoving off.' 'Tomorrow is the first of October. There have been no hurricanes yet this season worth mentioning, but a noteworthy one approaches now, thou mustn't doubt. Do not cling too tightly to ephemeral notions and worldly things, Brother, lest thou lose what thou most values.' He whistled an old Shaker hymn that was popular among the Brethren: 'Tis a gift to be simple, 'Tis a gift to be free, 'Tis a gift to come down Where we ought to be... I knocked on the railing, annoyed with myself for my superstitiousness but angrier with Assembly for baiting me. 'Of all the infernal meanness,' I said. 'Don't whistle for a wind in hurricane season!' 'Oh, as for that,' he said, the corners of his naked lip turning up just a little bit, 'God watches out for sailors and the wicked, is't not what sailors say? And the wicked, too, I doubt not.

The smell of coffee drifted from the dining room on her left, while across the entry hall the living room was full of voices and smoke. “Lot of people here already?” “A right smart of ’em,” said Marinda. “Peach

We may not look too adventurous now, but back then nothing fazed us. And those three months were challenging ones. There were supposedly two seasons--wet and dry, but I quickly discovered there were really three seasons: wet, dry, and dusty, which occurred in sequence every three hours. The water and electricity were on for only part of the day...I experienced my first hurricane there. Major flooding and mudslides. Nicaragua kept us on our toes.

There’s a big, early-season storm blowing itself out in the Gulf of Mexico. It’s bounced around the Gulf, killing people from Florida to Texas and down into Mexico. There are over 700 known dead so far. One hurricane. And how many people has it hurt? How many are going to starve later because of destroyed crops? That’s nature. Is it God? Most of the dead are the street poor who have nowhere to go and who don’t hear the warnings until it’s too late for their feet to take them to safety. Where’s safety for them anyway? Is it a sin against God to be poor?

On the world stage, the Declaration of Peace was completed and signed in 2039 by every nation on the planet except for Sri Lanka. Tensions rose around the world as the Coalition of Nations grew uneasy with the silence of the secretive island. A decision was made to send every available tank, warship, drone and soldier to invade the uncooperative nation. The attack, known as the World Wide War, lasted only two minutes and left the entirety of Sri Lanka in ruin. It was later discovered that Sri Lanka had never been invited to the Declaration of Peace Summit, as their communications had been destroyed weeks prior by a record-breaking hurricane season. After the defeat of the terroristic island, the world rejoiced, entering the Age of Peace.

Some say God is a spirit, a force, an ultimate reality. Ask seven people what all of that means and you’ll get seven different answers. So what is God? Just another name for whatever makes you feel special and protected? There’s a big, early-season storm blowing itself out in the Gulf of Mexico. It’s bounced around the Gulf, killing people from Florida to Texas and down into Mexico. There are over 700 known dead so far. One hurricane. And how many people has it hurt? How many are going to starve later because of destroyed crops? That’s nature. Is it God? Most of the dead are the street poor who have nowhere to go and who don’t hear the warnings until it’s too late for their feet to take them to safety.

Petrichor,

[Sebastian explains why he won't leave Boston] "Because I hate the cold and the forty-two different seasons this city experiences and the leaves"—it had to be noted that he said leaves with jazz hands, and I couldn't tell if those were ironic jazz hands or not—"and then cobblestones, which must've been invented by an orthopedic surgeon, and everything is old as fuck and that's supposed to be special, and the roads"—he cringed with his entire body—"the fucking roads look like a child with no object permanence drew them. They make no sense, none at all, and don't get me started on the sports. These people and their sports. My god. Do you know about the turkeys? There are turkeys here, Shap, they're all over the place, they don't appreciate that we're sharing their habitat, and they'll chase the fuck out of you if you're not careful. And then there's the coffee, which used to be the only part of my day that didn't piss me off but now I can't just order coffee, I have to also join a cult. And you can't park. You just can't park in this town. Don't try. Not worth it, but it means you have to walk on the danger rocks and you better believe they'll be slippery as hell because all the leaves came down between hot wind season and cold hurricane season so you'll roll an ankle just to dodge the turkeys and order a regular coffee which you must drink with cream and sugar by order of the cult but it's going to be free because one of the sports teams finally won a game—and thank fuck for that because they're not out driving drunk or beating on each other for one blessed night." He gave a brisk shake of his head. "That's why I can't leave." I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. "Because you hate everything?" "Yeah. I hate it all so thoroughly that I'm sure I'd never find anywhere else to hate with such completeness. Without all of this resentment, I'd be empty inside.

Even after a few years, the charm hadn't disappeared. I still enjoyed finding the first tulip of spring, seeing a buck race across my lawn, feeding cracked corn to birds, gathering kindling for the stove, walking on a blustery beach in December. I even enjoyed boarding up the windows in preparation for a hurricane or going out at night in a robe and pajamas to sweep falling snow off my car before it froze solid. I liked being exposed to the elements as I never was in New York. I think it's good to know the difference between what exists naturally and what is manmade. In cities we lose sight of these basic differences and, I believe, in the end, of ourselves.

In fact the best plan would have you wintering in the Bahamas, spend hurricane season in DR and PR, the next winter in the Virgins, Leewards and Windwards, the next summer in Venezuela and the third winter in Trinidad. Now you’ve got lots of time.

A Sunset I love the evenings, passionless and fair, I love the evens, Whether old manor-fronts their ray with golden fulgence leavens, In numerous leafage bosomed close; Whether the mist in reefs of fire extend its reaches sheer, Or a hundred sunbeams splinter in an azure atmosphere On cloudy archipelagos. Oh, gaze ye on the firmament! A hundred clouds in motion, Up-piled in the immense sublime beneath the winds' commotion, Their unimagined shapes accord: Under their waves at intervals flame a pale levin through, As if some giant of the air amid the vapors drew A sudden elemental sword. The sun at bay with splendid thrusts still keeps the sullen fold; And momently at distance sets, as a cupola of gold, The thatched roof of a cot a-glance; Or on the blurred horizon joins his battle with the haze; Or pools the blooming fields about with inter-isolate blaze, Great moveless meres of radiance. Then mark you how there hangs athwart the firmament's swept track, Yonder a mighty crocodile with vast irradiant back, A triple row of pointed teeth? Under its burnished belly slips a ray of eventide, The flickerings of a hundred glowing clouds in tenebrous side With scales of golden mail ensheathe. Then mounts a palace, then the air vibrates--the vision flees. Confounded to its base, the fearful cloudy edifice Ruins immense in mounded wrack; Afar the fragments strew the sky, and each envermeiled cone Hangeth, peak downward, overhead, like mountains overthrown When the earthquake heaves its hugy back. These vapors, with their leaden, golden, iron, bronz¨¨d glows, Where the hurricane, the waterspout, thunder, and hell repose, Muttering hoarse dreams of destined harms, 'Tis God who hangs their multitude amid the skiey deep, As a warrior that suspendeth from the roof-tree of his keep His dreadful and resounding arms! All vanishes! The Sun, from topmost heaven precipitated, Like a globe of iron which is tossed back fiery red Into the furnace stirred to fume, Shocking the cloudy surges, plashed from its impetuous ire, Even to the zenith spattereth in a flecking scud of fire The vaporous and inflam¨¨d spaume. O contemplate the heavens! Whenas the vein-drawn day dies pale, In every season, every place, gaze through their every veil? With love that has not speech for need! Beneath their solemn beauty is a mystery infinite: If winter hue them like a pall, or if the summer night Fantasy them starre brede.

One of the misconceptions in minor hockey is a belief that players have to get on “big city” teams as young as possible to gain exposure when being identified by major junior clubs. For example, the Greater Toronto Hockey League (GTHL) has long been considered a strong breeding ground, with three or four elite AAA teams each year producing some of the top players for the OHL draft. However, on the list of players from Ontario since 1975 who have made the NHL, only 16.8 percent of those players came from GTHL programs while the league itself represents approximately 20 percent of the registered players in the province—that means the league has a per capita development rate of about –3 percent. What the research found was that players from other Ontario minor hockey leagues who elevated to the NHL actually had an edge in terms of career advancement on their GTHL counterparts by the age of nineteen. Each year several small-town Ontario parents, some with players as young as age eight, believe it’s necessary to get their kids on a GTHL superclub such as the Marlboros, Red Wings, or Jr. Canadiens. However, just twenty-one GTHL “import” players since 1997 have played a game in the NHL in the last fifteen years. This pretty much indicates that regardless of where he plays his minor hockey from the ages of eight through sixteen, a player eventually develops no matter how strong his team is as a peewee or bantam. An excellent example comes from the Ontario players born in 1990, which featured a powerhouse team in the Markham Waxers of the OMHA’s Eastern AAA League. The Waxers captured the prestigious OHL Cup and lost a grand total of two games in eight years. In 2005–06, when they were in minor midget (age fifteen), they compiled a record of 64-1-2. The Waxers had three future NHL draft picks on their roster in Steven Stamkos (Tampa Bay), Michael Del Zotto (New York Rangers), and Cameron Gaunce (Colorado). One Waxers nemesis in the 1990 age group was the Toronto Jr. Canadiens of the GTHL. The Jr. Canadiens were also a perennial powerhouse team and battled the Waxers on a regular basis in major tournaments and provincial championships over a seven-year period. Like the Waxers, the Jr. Canadiens team also had three future NHL draft picks in Alex Pietrangelo (St. Louis), Josh Brittain (Anaheim), and Stefan Della Rovere (Washington). In the same 1990 age group, a “middle of the pack” team was the Halton Hills Hurricanes (based west of Toronto in Milton). This club played in the OMHA’s South Central AAA League and periodically competed with some of the top teams. Over a seven-year span, they were marginally over the .500 mark from novice to minor midget. That Halton Hills team produced two future NHL draft picks in Mat Clark (Anaheim) and Jeremy Price (Vancouver). Finally, the worst AAA team in the 1990 group every year was the Chatham-Kent Cyclones—a club that averaged about five wins a season playing in the Pavilion League in Southwestern Ontario. Incredibly, the lowly Cyclones also had two future NHL draft picks in T.J. Brodie (Calgary) and Jason Missiaen (Montreal). It’s a testament that regardless of where they play their minor hockey, talented players will develop at their own pace and eventually rise to the top. You don’t need to be on an 85-5-1 big-city superclub to develop or get noticed.

In the trade, moves are known to cause “relocation trauma,” physically and emotionally, for the frail elderly person, already sick and scared, and for the adult children, who must orchestrate everything. The most dramatic example of relocation trauma occurred during Hurricane Katrina and a subsequent series of Gulf Coast storms, when long-term mortality and morbidity was significantly worse for the elders “successfully” relocated than those “sheltered in place.” In other words, those who survived by being bused out of the eye of the storm to higher ground died subsequently at rates much higher than those who remained behind. The main causes of death were twofold: deadly urinary tract infections from catheters inserted for the long bus journey; and falls, leading to broken hips and their cascade of health risks—for instance, if a previously healthy nursing home resident took a tumble while looking for the bathroom in an unfamiliar place or while wearing ill-fitting slippers borrowed after fleeing without all her own belongings.

They couldn’t have known that slowly, year by year, the ocean’s water would ingest a people’s fury so completely that hurricanes would come each season and claim lives in recompense for Africans gone overboard.

Sean had never stared into as many blank-eyed faces before. Throughout the high school civics talk, he felt as if he were speaking to the kids in a foreign language, one they had no intention of learning. Scrambling for a way to reach his audience, he ad-libbed, tossing out anecdotes about his own years at Coral Beach High. He confessed that as a teenager his decision to run for student government had been little more than a wily excuse to approach the best-looking girls. But what ultimately hooked his interest in student government was the startling discovery that the kids at school, all so different—jocks, nerds, preppies, and brains—could unite behind a common cause. During his senior year, when he’d been president of the student council, Coral Beach High raised seven thousand dollars to aid Florida’s hurricane victims. Wouldn’t that be something to feel good about? Sean asked his teenage audience. The response he received was as rousing as a herd of cows chewing their cud. Except this group was blowing big pink bubbles with their gum. The question and answer period, too, turned out to be a joke. The teens’ main preoccupation: his salary and whether he got driven around town in a chauffeured limo. When they learned he was willing to work for peanuts and that he drove an eight-year-old convertible, he might as well have stamped a big fat L on his forehead. He was weak-kneed with relief when at last the principal mounted the auditorium steps and thanked Sean for his electrifying speech. While Sean was politically seasoned enough to put the morning’s snafus behind him, and not worry overmuch that the apathetic bunch he’d just talked to represented America’s future voters, it was the high school principal’s long-winded enthusiasm, telling Sean how much of an inspiration he was for these kids, that truly set Sean’s teeth on edge. And made him even later for the final meeting of the day, the coral reef advisory panel.

on the island where the drunken and brokenhearted typically washed ashore after a night of debauchery. A red-faced Swede at Le Select claimed to have bought Spider a Heineken that very morning. Someone else said he saw him stalking the beach at Colombier, and there was a report, never confirmed, of an inconsolable creature baying at the moon in the wilds of Toiny. The gendarmes faithfully followed each lead. Then they scoured the island from north to south, stem to stern, all to no avail. A few minutes after sundown, Reginald Ogilvy informed the crew of the Aurora that Spider Barnes had vanished and that a suitable replacement would have to be found in short order. The crew fanned out across the island, from the waterside eateries of Gustavia to the beach shacks of the Grand Cul-de-Sac. And by nine that evening, in the unlikeliest of places, they had found their man. He had arrived on the island at the height of hurricane season and settled into the clapboard cottage at the far end of the beach at Lorient. He had no possessions other than a canvas duffel bag, a stack of well-read books, a shortwave radio, and a rattletrap motor scooter that he’d acquired in Gustavia for a few grimy banknotes and a smile. The books were thick, weighty, and learned; the radio was of a quality

June 1. The opening day of the Atlantic hurricane season

Oh, I’m not worried,” said Serge. “I’m cookin’! I love hurricane season!

in Hurricane Season, and still spends a significant amount of time there. She has worked as a newspaper reporter and a freelance journalist, and has contributed mystery short stories to a number of anthologies. She and her husband,

March 10 Protection from the Storms God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.—Psalm 46:1 I’m a Texan. When we think of storms, tornado is the word. March through May is the peak time for tornados in our state. We get hit about 110 times a year. Texans know where to take refuge from tornados. We have periodic drills in our schools and sometimes in our churches. I have gone to our church basement several times because we have had many warnings. What kind of storms do you take refuge from? You may be on the coast and dread hurricane season. You may be from California and have not only fires, but mud slides. Wherever you live, I know that you encounter storms in your life. Where do you take refuge from the storms of life? Do you plunge into the pit of despair, or do you seek the protection of the one who controls the storms? God’s Word is so precious. The older I get, the more I relish verses like the one for today. He is my refuge. No matter what the reason for our storms and our heartaches, we are promised that God will be our strength in times of trouble. Go to His storm cellar. Dear Father, thank You for the promises from Your Word: “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand” (Isaiah 41:10).

Night after night, Strachey would sit by the fire, waiting and watching and hoping.24 Perhaps it was at this time that he began his long report on the shipwreck or perhaps he simply gazed seaward and thought of what the uncertain future might hold. September turned to October and October to November, however, with no sight of Ravens or of any rescue vessel from Jamestown. His fate and the fate of his mates was never determined. Almost certainly, they were lost in a sudden storm—after all, it was still hurricane season—that sent their tiny vessel to the bottom.25

Deep down where it mattered, she knew now. He loved her. Her. He was reserved, but forthright. Calm, but decisive. When he spoke, she knew she could trust him. They’d chosen each other, above all, and she’d make the same choice again every time.

There are really only two types of men in this world when it comes to bad trouble,' Andy said cupping a match between his hands and lighting a cigarette. 'Suppose there was a house full of rare paintings and sculptures and fine old antiques, Red? And suppose the guy who owned the house heard that there was a monster of a hurricane headed right at it. One of those two kinds of men just hopes for the best. The hurricane will change course, he says to himself. No right-thinking hurricane would ever dare wipe out all the Rembrandts, my two Degas horses, my Jackson Pollocks and my Paul Klees. Furthermore, God wouldn't allow it. And worst comes to worst, they're insured. Thats's one sort of man. The other sort just assumes that the hurricane is going to tear right though the middle of his house. If the weather bureau says the hurricane just changed course, this guy assumes it'll change back in order to put his house on ground zero again. This second type of guy knows there's no harm in hoping for the best as long as you're prepared for the worst.

There's no reasoning with dog, two ferocious dogs who refuse to let go of their prey until they've been torn to shreds

Indigenous Lives Holding Our World Together, by Brenda J. Child American Indian Stories, by Zitkala-Sa A History of My Brief Body, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Falling Sky: Words of a Yanomami Shaman, by Davi Kopenawa and Bruce Albert Apple: Skin to the Core, by Eric Gansworth Heart Berries, by Terese Marie Mailhot The Blue Sky, by Galsan Tschinag Crazy Brave, by Joy Harjo Standoff, by Jacqueline Keeler Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, by Sherman Alexie Spirit Car, by Diane Wilson Two Old Women, by Velma Wallis Pipestone: My Life in an Indian Boarding School, by Adam Fortunate Eagle Split Tooth, by Tanya Tagaq Walking the Rez Road, by Jim Northrup Mamaskatch, by Darrel J. McLeod Indigenous Poetry Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings, by Joy Harjo Ghost River (Wakpá Wanági), by Trevino L. Brings Plenty The Book of Medicines, by Linda Hogan The Smoke That Settled, by Jay Thomas Bad Heart Bull The Crooked Beak of Love, by Duane Niatum Whereas, by Layli Long Soldier Little Big Bully, by Heid E. Erdrich A Half-Life of Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation, by Eric Gansworth NDN Coping Mechanisms, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Invisible Musician, by Ray A. Young Bear When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through, edited by Joy Harjo New Poets of Native Nations, edited by Heid E. Erdrich The Failure of Certain Charms, by Gordon Henry Jr. Indigenous History and Nonfiction Everything You Know About Indians Is Wrong, by Paul Chaat Smith Decolonizing Methodologies, by Linda Tuhiwai Smith Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, edited by Gary Clayton Anderson and Alan R. Woodworth Being Dakota, by Amos E. Oneroad and Alanson B. Skinner Boarding School Blues, edited by Clifford E. Trafzer, Jean A. Keller, and Lorene Sisquoc Masters of Empire, by Michael A. McDonnell Like a Hurricane: The Indian Movement from Alcatraz to Wounded Knee, by Paul Chaat Smith and Robert Allen Warrior Boarding School Seasons, by Brenda J. Child They Called It Prairie Light, by K. Tsianina Lomawaima To Be a Water Protector, by Winona LaDuke Minneapolis: An Urban Biography, by Tom Weber

You know about the oxygen masks on airplanes, right?” Jenna stifled a smile. “Yes, I’ve heard of them.” “They always tell passengers if the masks come down, put the mask on yourself before you try to put it on anyone else. It’s the same with kids, honey. You have to take care of yourself so you can go and take care of your kids.

Trombone Shorty’s “Hurricane Season” filled every corner of the room, and I found myself bobbing my head along with the beat. This song embodied New Orleans; if you didn’t get that, you did not, absolutely could not, fathom this city.

Tan feo que era, pensaba Norma al contemplarlo; y tan dulce, al mismo tiempo; tan fácil de querer pero tan difícil de comprender, de alcanzar-

Дети моих дочерей – мои внуки, а дети моих сыновей – пойди у мамаш их спроси

We’ll have to cross the ocean in the middle of hurricane season, go to a foreign country filled with hostile shapeshifters, and babysit a pregnant woman, while everyone plots and waits for an opportunity to stab us in the back.” I shrugged. “Well, it sounds bad if you put it that way . . .” “Kate,” he growled. “Yes?” “I’m trying to tell you that you don’t have to go. I have to, but you can stay if you want.” Ha-ha. “I thought we were a team.” “We are.” “You’re sending some confusing signals.

The rain can't hurt you now, and the darkness doesn't last forever. See there? See that light shining in the distance? The little light that looks like a star? That's where you're headed, he told them, that's the way out of this hole.

Hawaiʻi has a hurricane season that runs from June to November, but the group of islands is buttressed from any real threat by the cooler waters that surround them.

щяха да се надрискат, ако видеха как баба е похарчила пари, които е нямала, за да направи на блудния син погребението, което според нея той заслужава, едно от ония погребения, каквито вече от години не се виждаха в селото, с тамалес с агнешко за всички присъстващи, с музикална група от севера, с мариачи, с каси, с цели каси ракия от захарна тръстика, та всички да направят хубаво главата и да оплакват Маурилио както си му е редът

момчето, щом порасна, се превърна в диво животно, което, пуснеха ли го на свобода, дори по никое време вечер, все го теглеше към гората, защото според баба ѝ този бил начинът да възпитават момчетата, та да не се страхуват от нищо

а разнообразие и за да не губи навик, баба, когато е ядосана, си спомня само за лошите неща

за разнообразие и за да не губи навик, баба, когато е ядосана, си спомня само за лошите неща

At what point did pursuing the dream become futile? Was there a point at which the dreamer should just let it go? But what were you supposed to do when the dream felt fundamental to the fabric of your being, of your soul? What then?

Anything that lets you capture the world as you see it and say things you can’t say with words. Sometimes it’s more important than anything else.

Don’t make the mistake of thinking there’s only one road you can take, only one life you can live. You’ll figure out how to make the different parts of your life come together. I have all the faith in the world in you.

Don't make the mistake of thinking there's only one road you can take, only one life you can live. You'll figure out how to make the different parts of your life come together.

It's easy to expect everyone else to have changed because you have, but reality is still out there churning away. Your time away changes you, but it doesn't change anyone else.

I understand the pull photography has. Any art, really. Anything that lets you capture the world as you see it and say things you can't say with words. Sometimes it's more important than anything else.

I'm always amazed at how 'We The People' come together to assist one another during Hurricane Season or any other calamity. The beauty of human compassion always staggers me and reminds me of how divine we truly are. However, It shouldn't take a disaster, natural or otherwise, to remind us of our collective humanity.

[...] well and truly cuntstruck...

Nightmares have seasons like hurricanes.

Actually, we do have four seasons. 'Hot,' 'really hot,' 'hurricanes,' and then 'actually pretty nice.' But that one only lasts like two days.

But those people who truly criticize, who belittle—their words don’t matter.

[...] his friends were all a bunch of poor cunts and his mother was a fool who still believed her man was coming back one day, a fucking fool who pretended she didn’t know that Brando’s dad had another family over in Palogacho and only sent them money each month because he felt guilty for having tossed them out like rubbish bags, as if we were pieces of shit, Mum, wake the fuck up: what’s the point in all that praying, what good does it do if you can’t even see straight, if you can’t see what everyone else does, you stupid, stupid woman! But she would just lock herself in her room and chant her litanies, almost shouting them to block out Brando’s raging and bashing against her door, the kicking and thumping that he would have happily aimed at her rotten mug, to see if that way she’d get it through her thick skull, to see if she’d just die and fuck off once and for all to her motherfucking promised land and stop banging on at him with her prayers and her sermons, her moaning and snivelling, all that: Lord, what have I done to deserve this child? Where’s my darling boy, my sweet, dear little Brando? How could you allow the devil to enter him, Lord? The devil doesn’t exist, he’d shout back, or your shitty God, and his mother would let out an anguished wail followed by more prayers, intoned with even greater intensity, even greater devotion, to make up for her son’s blasphemes, before Brando stormed off to the bathroom, where he’d stand before the mirror and stare at the reflection of his face until it looked like his black pupils, together with his equally black irises, had dilated so wide that they covered the entire surface of the mirror, a forbidding darkness cloaking everything: a darkness devoid of even the solace of the incandescent fires of hell; a desolate, dead darkness, a void from which nothing and no one could ever rescue him: not the wide-open mouths of the poofs who approached him in the clubs on the highway, not his nocturnal escapades in search of dog orgies, not even the memory of what he and Luismi had done, not even that [...]

There are about forty-eight hurricanes each year across the globe. Two-thirds of them are in the Northern Hemisphere (where hurricane season is June though November) and one-third is in the South (where the season is November through May). In round numbers, about 60 percent are in the Pacific, 30 percent in the Indian Ocean, and 10 percent in the North Atlantic; they are very rare in the South Atlantic.