(This Flo was not that progressive)
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My Southern neighbors and I had a visitor last week. And this week. And, very likely, next week, too. Because there’s apparently no “hurry” in Hurricane Florence.

After lumbering all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, like Gerard Depardieu attending the Oscars, the sixth named storm of the 2018 season finally arrived along the coast of North Carolina, a place which still confuses many Americans who think there’s just one State named “The Carolinas.” No, there are two Carolinas, just like there are two Dakotas, two Virginias, and two people left in Denver who aren’t stoned.

North Carolina is known as “The Tar Heel State,” and I bet there’s a reason, somewhere. The State is home to the city of Charlotte, the fourth largest banking center in the United States, after New York City, San Francisco, and the Clinton Re-election Fund. North Carolina is also the ninth most populous of the fifty-seven U.S. States once visited by Barack Obama, former President and geography whiz. North Carolina also hosts the largest research park in the USA, where they study triangles. And in one of those amazing coincidences that thrill the imagination, there’s a school called the University of North Carolina. What are the odds.

South Carolina, in case you’re keeping score, is located south of North Carolina, and is probably best known to the rest of the US as “that State you have to drive through to get to Florida.” Among other highlights is barbecue, barbecue, hush puppies, and barbecue. South Carolina is also home to Clemson University, a very nice school despite having an invisible “p” in its name. And there may be other States in the Union that have more churches per capita than South Carolina, but you’d have to prove it to me.

As far as you know, the “Palmetto State” is so nicknamed out of respect for a delightful coastal insect known as the Palmetto Bug, which is basically a giant cockroach with a pilot’s license, but without a pilot’s training. Many a resident of the beautiful port city of Charleston can recall sitting at home of an evening and suddenly having to duck an incoming, buzzing kamikaze, which is how many South Carolinians learned to curse.

Coincidentally, as five-mile-an-hour Florence aimed for the Atlantic Coast, we should note that South Carolina also has a city named Florence, though the city version is faster. At one point after landfall of the storm version of Florence, the headline on the weather was “Florence is now forty miles southwest of Florence.”

I once dated a woman who could do that.

In the days leading up to landfall, the political leadership in many East Coast States fell victim to a common syndrome known as “premature evacuation.” Basically, it was recommended that everyone everywhere should pack a bag and go spend the next two days sitting in their cars on a hopelessly backed-up inland-bound freeway. Granted, being stuck in a traffic jam is not the most pleasant way to spend a hurricane, but it does allow South Carolinians an opportunity to practice that Palmetto Bug-induced cursing.

And, as with any inclement weather event, every citizen of South Carolina was immediately required to eat white bread, because it’s the law, or some mis-assigned Hasidic tradition.

As usual during these occurrences, local civic leaders were frustrated because their “Evacuate Or Die By Palmetto Bug” threats were ignored. You’d think they’d have learned by now: if you want somebody to do something, just tell them you will not allow them to do that thing. This is known as the “Briar Patch Syndrome.”

Then, early last Friday morning, the sluggish Hurricane Brady Bunch Mom finally made landfall, kicked off her shoes, and just plopped down, like some unpleasant relative, or an IRS auditor with an attitude. Several weather stormcrows bemoaned that Florence was only moving at three miles per hour, as if she was driving every car in front of me, every morning on my way to work.

(By the way, I seemed to have confused someone on social media with my “Hurricane Brady Bunch Mom” bit. “Hey,” they challenged, “I thought it was Carol Brady!” But I had to let them work out themselves, because I believe in an old piece of good advice — never try to explain a joke. Explaining a joke is like dissecting a frog: it’s no fun, it’s messy, and the frog dies.)

Although only two days earlier, Hurricane Florence Nightingale had been a monstrous Category Four storm, she made landfall as a Cat One, like a middle-aged coed crash-dieting for the class reunion. And then, as mentioned, she just stalled. All told, this was one seriously slow-moving woman … like Hillary getting out of politics.

Okay, not that slow. Flo was a hurricane, not a glacier.