I Am So Popular: Spike 'n Ike

Though we lived on a super tiny budget, my parents saw to it that we had a beach house. Or, as I like to say, a mile-away-from-the-beach house. They built it themselves and it was this big, square, two-story, sheet-rock-covered-in-fake-paneling affair with beds in every room since there were so many of us. And when I say in every room, I mean in every room. Including the kitchen.

The house was on a little island called West Wildwood, off the coast of New Jersey. When people hear the word island, they think of Herve Villechaize. They think of Hawaii. But let me explain.

This island of my youth is so close to sea level that a full moon or overzealous spit causes flooding in the streets. The last census showed year-round population to be less than five hundred. It has a total area of .3 square miles. It is not Paradise Found. Unless, of course, you came from the pit of South Philly like my parents, in which case it most certainly was.

We spent most summer weekends there, and a couple of weeks each August. At some point, my father acquired an old-fashioned utilitarian airport limousine–think a double length station wagon—with eight passenger doors and a very elongated luggage compartment. All along the sides he painted our names. Across the back, in huge letters, this: ABORTION IS KILLING YOUR OWN CHILD.

We’d make the drive about 75 miles from our small hometown (1 square mile, pop: 4500) to West Wildwood and always, always, our vacations fell during hurricane season. This was not due so much to my father’s sadistic streak (that was saved for other things) as it was our religion. See, Catholics celebrate the Feast of the Assumption on August 15th. It is believed that on this day in whatever year it was, the Virgin Mary was swept into Heaven, fully intact. And, at least where I come from, it is also believed that on this day all the ocean is blessed and, thus, holds tremendous and miraculous healing power.

So, yes, qua-billions of people—some crippled and struggling to reach water’s edge— flock to the sea, and the lifeguards row a priest out in a boat and he does this rigmarole thingamajig with some flowers and maybe some incense. And, I don’t care if there’s a class 90 storm a’blowin’, if you are my father’s child, you are getting your ass out of the Anti-Abortion-Mobile and you are Getting Into That Water.

Surely it is an exaggerated memory of my father, swimming way out, lightning bolts as if thrown by Zeus himself crashing all around him. But it is not an exaggerated memory to recall my father, in the role of God, reacting the same way, each and every time when the lone ambulance drove around the island, its driver announcing through bullhorn: Everyone EVACUATE THE ISLAND!!!

My father, sure enough, would snarl in his inimitable snarl: We ain’t going anywhere. Everybody upstairs.

Thus would begin another hurricane adventure. All nine kids, upstairs, no TV, just board games and a ferocious wind hitting that house and the water rising rising rising, invariably licking at the feet of, and sometimes swallowing whole, the downstairs furniture, even though we’d put it up on bricks before ascending to “safety.”

Then the storm would recede, though the waters took longer, our little island now smaller still. We had a tiny boat we kept beside the house, never seaworthy. But it was good for times like these. My older sisters, never allowed to ride behind the mosquito trucks on their bikes like other kids, were however allowed to go out in this questionable vessel, floating around our bastardized Venice. As one of the little kids, I was left behind, wistful and jealous.

And then, all ruined furniture and rugs dragged to curb once the water finally did retreat, it was time for the next vacation ritual: seeking out replacement furnishings. We did not, as some do, shop at furniture stores. Not even used ones. No, we went for what I like to refer to at Early New Jersey Castoff, retrieving “new” items from the trash of others—not waterlogged stuff, but pieces we might acquire over the course of the next year, slowly rebuilding inventory.

I’d planned a trip to Galveston a couple of weeks ago and a friend cautioned me not to drive into Gustav. I told her not to worry. Though I grew up with an odd non-fear of hurricanes thanks to surviving so many in such ridiculous circumstances, recent hurricanes—despite my inland safety—have scared the shit out of me enough that I don’t take such foolish chances anymore.

I especially remember Rita. Which isn’t to say I forget Katrina. I do recall all the evacuees that took refuge here when New Orleans was leveled. But it was for Rita that my home became shelter. Three friends spent 27 hours driving up from Galveston to get out of the way of that one. And with them, they brought eight cats and a dog to add to my collection of three dogs and two cats.

The cats they brought were not ordinary felines. Seven of them weighed at least twenty pounds and the eighth was about 95 years old. My Boston Terrier, Bubbles, didn’t know what the hell happened. It was like one minute she was lord over the house and the next, any room she entered she faced off with Clash of the Titan Kitties. She was not happy.

Bubbles’ disappointment notwithstanding, we made a party of it— because alongside whatever awe and respect they now inspire, hurricanes also deliver an oddly festive feeling for me. This no doubt courtesy of five years living in Tampa, where we were far enough inland to avoid any real danger, but still had to deal with the residual downpours, the whipping wind. Which basically meant taking off from work, putting some big masking tape X’s across the windows, stocking up on three months worth of food and booze to get us through three or four days, and settling in to watch Women In Prison videos.

I should know in the next twenty-four hours if my home will again rival the ark. No word from my people in Galveston yet but I’m standing by. And if Austin does get full up with coastal visitors fleeing for higher ground, I hope you’ll consider harboring a few yourself or dropping off supplies. The Chronicle’s running an emergency blog with updates on how you can help out. Please do.

Spike Gillespie is so popular they rhymed a hurricane with her name. She blogs regularly for LaunchPad Coworking and at www.spikeg.com. She is also head mistress for the Dick Monologues. You can email her at spike@spikeg.com to reserve seats for the October 8th show which is almost sold out.