HURRICANE!
In 1953, the National Hurricane Center began naming storms. Before that, they were simply referred to as "the storm of '03" or the "Galveston storm." Now, with names, we recall them as old nemeses, spitting out our tales of loss and tribulations.

I know what a hurricane can do. I lost an aunt and a cousin in Camille in 1969. She was a beautiful country girl a long way from home. They lived in a beachside home in Biloxi, MS and were oblivious to the danger churning out in the Gulf of Mexico. She and her son were killed by 200 mph winds and a wall of water in excess of 20 feet. I remember seeing the adults wandering from room to room, crying inconsolably. I was 5; my cousin was 4 when he died. I only have a dim memory of us playing together with toy cars. My uncle, who had to go identify the bodies, has never spoken much about it. He couldn't even tell where their house used to be.

I've been through a number of hurricanes now. I've stood in the eye, hot, sticky and ominous with the promise of future chaos. I've endured the sunburn, sore muscles and dehydration of the recovery after a storm which is inevitably worse than the storm itself. I've seen boats in streets and cars in bays, neither working as designed.

The last few storms have been different because now I have a small child who can't read coordinates on a map or appreciate the danger of the beautiful swirling image on TV. All she knows is Mommy and Daddy are home and we have to play inside because the wind is howling whoo whoo just like at Sam's house in the story Kiss Goodnight Sam, where a young bear is put to sleep on a stormy night by a combination of warm milk and kisses from Mrs. Bear. I hate that so many children's books don't have fathers in them.

So all day she plays with her multi-colored tea set while her mother and I watch the growing waves on the bay, advancing like white-tufted Visigoths. The rain starts and the ditches fill up with water. Waves crash over the seawall. We wait and worry. Finally, the waters begin to recede and in the late afternoon we all climb into Daddy's big Bubba truck to survey our little hamlet. We wave "bye-bye hurricane."

My daughter is such a trooper. Last summer, she went through two weeks without air conditioning, playing full tilt while small beads of sweat collected on her little nose. Her mother and I wilted in the heat. Life became very simple, dictated by sunlight, heat and physical labor. It was like a bad camping trip.

The remaining storm names for 2005 are: Lee, Maria, Nate, Ophelia, Phillipe, Rita, Stan, Tammy, Vince, and Wilma. Some monikers get retired if the storm they conjure up is too painful to relive. You'll never see another hurricane Andrew or Camille. Is it a way of honoring the dead? I don't know.

Call me old-fashioned, but I liked it when hurricanes were named after women. That changed in 1979. I'm all for treating the sexes equally, but that doesn't mean I want to set foot on the S.S. Bob. Some things should be left the way they are strictly for aesthetics.