Summary
WHEN the hooded man with the flashlight and the yellow slicker bangs on your door at 4 in the morning and tells you that the hurricane is headed your way and that you must evacuate, you have two choices: to stay or to go. Maybe the constable, mayor, or governor says you have only one choice. But in our house there were always two.
Call it civil disobedience, passive resistance, territoriality, or sheer stubbornness, my father was a man who was not easily dislodged from his comfortable chair in his comfortable living room, his good reading lamp, his papers, his crosswords, his peace, especially when he was in the midst of his weeks-long vacation at Bethany Beach, Del., a spot where he began to take his family in 1948.See the full content of this document
Extract
Riding Out the Hurricane
And so, as the vigilant firemen or lifeguards went door to door announcing the imminent arrival of first Connie and then Diane, both in August 1955, my father thanked them each time for their hard...
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