When the weather forecasters began to warn that the hurricane might take a turn up the Mississippi River, pass over our scented, magical city, then stall over Lake Pontchartrain, dumping millions of gallons of water over New Orleans, I took one look at my wife and said, "We're leaving." She was six months pregnant. So as the city hunkered into an eerie quietude, and superhuman force transformed rain into a shower of small nails, we filled up the car, locked the door, and headed off Calhoun Street out onto the freeways and ultimately across the causeway.
It was a harrowing journey, buffeted by winds kicking up whitecaps across the lake, the car rocking from side to side in the gray hours of early morning exodus. Holly sat quietly in the adjacent seat, clearly petrified, but not letting on. I gripped the wheel like a sailboat and headed north, my palms slippery and warm. Little did we know that high winds would follow us 250 miles up the Interstate, reminding us of the harrowing night we had just passed through, all accompanied to updates from the radio. We made it to the hermetic safety of my parents' home, but not without regrets.