Certain smells trigger specific memories. My grandmother’s house – cigarette smoke veiled by Lysol – takes me to weekend sleepovers, perched at the foot of my grandparents’ bed, watching Fantasy Island and downing Planter’s Cheese Balls.
But nothing hits me like walking into the gas station at 53rd Street South and Gulfport Boulevard. I step inside, take a breath. In that moment, it’s once again the runup to Hurricane Charley.
Earlier that year, I’d bought a home with a mother-in-law suite and filled the front with tenants. Together we weathered one hurricane after another in 2004. We were supposed to evacuate for Charley, but instead I hunkered down with an internet connection, my DVDs (how positively 2004), and rations from Sammy’s…