The Dawn is Breaking

I've always been a morning person, a trait that nearly got me killed in college.  My three and a half year roommate and still closer than a brother friend Barry was NOT a morning person.  Barry is also a good deal larger than I.

I used to wake up, happy, and stroll though our apartment snapping my fingers and whistling at first light.  I guess this went on for awhile.  Finally, one day, Barry grabbed me by the neck, pushed me up against the wall, and said if I didn't stop snapping my fingers, he'd have to kill me.  This is the one act of true violence I observed from this normally gentle giant in the close to 4 decades I've known him.  As I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness, I promised to quit it with the snapping of fingers...

Despite my love of and obnoxious cheerfulness of mornings, only two actual dawns are memorable to me.  The first turned out to be a disappointment.  When I was about 5, I was going to be taken to my first NY Mets game.  But the night before, there was a snag.  We were at some family function -- maybe my cousin Jeff's bar mitzvah, and I became itchy.  My parents opened my shirt -- sure enough, chicken pox.  It looked like no Shea Stadium for me, but I was ever the optimistic little boy, and I went to sleep wearing my Mets uniform, and had my trusty baseball glove ready, in order to catch foul balls.

I remember laying in bed, feeling itchy and feverish, but waiting for the first light to come in my window, on Charles Lane.  It finally came.  I went in the bathroom and looked in the mirror -- sure enough -- my face was covered in pimples.  I know in my child's heart that there would be no game for me.  And -- it was batting helmet day!  My brother in law's younger sister Kathy went in my stead, and in an act of kindness I recall to this day, over a half century later, she came over after the game (she had already had chicken pox, and so was immune from catching them from me) -- handed me the batting helmet she was given.  I think I left it in my garage years later, when we moved out of the house, Florida bound.

The second dawn I recall well was precisely 25 years ago today.  Hurricane Andrew had spent the wee hours pounding our house.  It literally ripped off most of the roof, and imploded, scarily, a glass atrium that separated our living room from our master bedroom.  Since it originally appeared the storm was heading north of us, to Palm Beach County, we kept my elderly Mom -- (she was 72 -- younger than my oldest sister is now) with us.  As the ceilings filled with water and collapsed, I led us all to my car in the garage -- a Mitsubishi Diamante -- still one of my favorite all time vehicles.

I figured it the garage ceiling collapsed, at least we'd have the car roof to protect us.  So Mom got in the back with three year old D1, and Wifey got in the front seat with 6 month old D2.  I left the dogs outside, on the concrete floor.  And then, in a feat of dog gymnastics, both the 95 pound Lab Midnight, and 24 pound Spaniel Alfred, both leaped into the car with us, through the open windows.

That was some comic relief -- I still recall D1's adorable giggle as my Mom whooped in delight.  But it was still pre dawn dark, and we had a few flashlights and a battery operated TV -- we watched Bryan Norcross, who truly took us through it -- explaining what was coming to each of the South Dade neighborhoods.

And then came the Dawn, finally. I emerged from the car.  Wifey sought out a non soaked place for Grandma Sunny and the Ds to sit.  I think there were none.  And I went outside, though there were still tropical storm force winds blowing.  I couldn't believe what I saw.  Our block looked like it had been bombed -- truly.

I went to a few houses, and met neighbors.  My neighbor Manny was in tears -- he was one of the successful ones who had already paid off his mortgage.  But he neglected to pay his insurance bill a few months before -- his house was a total loss. (He was a mortgage broker, though, and made so much money with the flurry of post Andrew financing and refinancing he and his family ended up fine).  I saw Arnald and his family -- his wife and three girls were fine.

And then I got on my bicycle and pedaled north to check on my in laws.  I found them still huddled in a closet, but their 50s era house, built well with Dade County pine tongue and groove roof, was fine -- they had one broken window and what turned out to be about $5k in damage.  I made my way back home, through the wreckage of SW 107 Ave.

Later that morning, I somehow drove my family to my in laws' house -- we spent a hot, un airconditioned August night.  The next day we caravaned to my Mom's in Delray -- totally unaffected by Andrew.  After a few nights, we moved to an apartment alert friend Linda found for us on Brickell Key -- our home for the next three months.  My in laws toughed it out in their house -- my father in law cooking all meals on a hibachi -- they refused to move out.  After surviving the Holocaust, a few weeks without electricity weren't any big thing to them.

But the dawn was a memorable one for me -- I was blissfully thankful my family was ok.  Our house and most of our possessions were waterlogged and pink fiberglass insulation-logged -- ruined.  And we realized something -- we really didn't care about stuff.

When Wifey and I married, we wrote a few vows -- borrowing from our beloved Dylan's song -- we promised to be a shelter for each other from the storms of life.  We both thought it would mean metaphorically.  Andrew made it actual -- it made it real.    We fulfilled our vows that day.

And the dawn broke, and it was light, and a new chapter of our lives together.