It seems like every time a significant wave from Africa breathes in warm water and the precise mix of conditions combines to raise it up to become a tropical storm, sooner or later we see or hear a headline. . . “at least one hundred feared dead in Haiti.”
Haiti. Slapped around by every storm and dictator that comes along. I visited Haiti, once.
The year was 1973. My first husband saw an ad for a swanky resort called Habitation LeClerc. I was 22, so green I had no understanding of where we were going when I got on the plane.
Our marriage didn’t end completely for another eight years. But that trip called into question almost everything I thought I knew about my academician husband. The corrosion in our relationship began on the drive from the Port au Prince airport to Habitation LeClerc. And maybe – just maybe – I started to grow up.
I haven’t posted for a few days. The “one hundred feared dead” headline from Hurricane Ike coverage poked that old pile of memory leaves. I’m working on an off-line story about it.
Also, we’re getting ready for a 10 day trip to Maine. We’ve become unused to travel, and it takes longer to make lists, pack, clean out the fridge, and remind ourselves to travel light. Books are the hardest, for me. I am reading three and have five new ones waiting in the wings. I want to take them all.