Hurricanes become fact of life

OK, this is getting ridiculous.

First Charley. Then Frances.

Seems like someone is visiting us from Missouri every time a hurricane hits. For Frances, it was a friend combining a check of his sailboat and a visit with The Other Half and me. (The boat survived, by the way.)

I'm starting to see a pattern. OK. Fess up. Who's coming down next weekend? That's when Ivan is supposed to spin in from the Atlantic.

All this is making it pretty hard to explain to friends and relatives back home why I left for the Tampa Bay region. If only there were some way to act as if we made the right decision. Maybe I could block the networks from broadcasting hurricane coverage outside Florida, or at least get them to quit showing all those roofs in the middle of the street.

To be honest, this hurricane season is driving me a little more insane with each passing storm. While other people evacuate, journalists have to cover the event. It's a little thing we like to call "serving readers," which can be accomplished better by not yelling "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!!" and fleeing the state.

So I've developed a few idiosyncrasies related to hurricane coverage to keep myself and my home safe. For instance, I wear a Southeast Missourian polo shirt to work during the storms, because a hurricane would never hit Missouri. I also wear a moonstone necklace, because they don't have hurricanes on the moon. I drink a toast to the incoming hurricane to show it I'm not afraid, so it might as well leave.

Before you have me straightjacketed for my own good, consider the Florida ritual of taunting hurricanes with spray-painted messages on plywood used to protect windows. Or my neighbor's claim St. Petersburg has avoided storm damage against all probability because we're protected by Indian spirits. (I'm sure the spirits are thrilled to protect us after seeing what we've done with the place.)

I was starting to head home from work Saturday when my boss suggested I spend the night at the office (a) for my own safety, and (b) so we'd have enough staff the next day. Envisioning my co-workers listening to me snore, babble and pass gas while watching me drool on the carpet, the craziness took over. I said, "I'll stay if I can braid your hair, we paint each other's nails and then we have a pillow fight."

He let me go with the promise I'd swim back the next day if needed.

They didn't need me Sunday. Frances passed over the Bay area as a tropical storm -- no major damage, just some downed trees, street flooding and power outages. I didn't even lose power until the wee hours of Monday morning. The experience helped me realize how dependent upon electricity my level of beauty is, but I couldn't complain about bad hair when people on the East Coast, where Frances made landfall, were slogging through a foot of water in their homes.

If anyone else in Missouri wants to see me, better make it after November. That's the last month of hurricane season.

Heidi Hall is a former managing editor of the Southeast Missourian who now lives in St. Petersburg, Fla.