Uncle Slappy, Aunt Sylvie and Hurricane Irma.

Uncle Slappy just called on the house phone. Though I was running out the door for work, I dropped my bag and took over the blower from my wife.

"We're ok," Uncle Slappy began. "We went over to Herbie and Yettie's. They have a concrete house on a hill--Florida's equivalent of Ararat."

"Thank god," I replied stupidly.

"They had wine in the wine refrigerator and ice-cream in the ice box. Right now with no electricity in the house, we are having bagels and lox. Their Sub-Zero's kept things cold."

"So, everything's ok," I begged.

"Everything's ok. I called on the cell phone Mort Gershman. He says the condo looks like hell. A lot of debris and branches about but no structural damage that he can determine."

Again, I invoked the name of the Lord. "Thank god."

"At Herb and Yettie's place, they have steel storm shutters and their condo was tight as a drum. The lights went out yesterday afternoon. But we played scrabble by candlelight and drank wine and coffee and had a little schtickle here and there."

"And how is Aunt Sylvie holding up?" She is 90 years old, and since she fell in the frozen vegetables at the Piggly Wiggly back in October has been shakier than usual."

"Aunt Sylvie is doing just fine," Uncle Slappy answered. "In fact she has some good news."

"I think we could all use a little good news," I said dumbly.

"Her hair looks fantastic."

And with that, the old man hung up the blower. And the world kept spinning.