Agnes was No Lady

We were really excited as the white '68 Olds Cutlass station wagon barreled its way down the interstate toward Fort Walton Beach, our chosen vacation spot on the Florida panhandle.

The trip from Clarksville, Tennessee to Florida was a long one, and the five of us sang every song we knew at least twice, and some three times, as we headed south in June of 1972. Our friends the Minters would be joining us there.

As we checked into the beach front motel, the proprietor told us that a big storm named Agnes had opened up in the Caribbean and that we needed to keep our eyes open because it just might turn into a hurricane and possibly head our way. Yeah right, we thought. June is too early for hurricanes.

We swam and played hard our first couple days in Fort Walton Beach, but the waves grew rougher, the skies darkened ominously, and Agnes was officially declared a hurricane.

A hurricane! I was excited. In all my wisdom as an eleven year old, I had thought the possibility of being in a hurricane would be fun -- something I could tell my friends about -- and I was hoping to have a chance to "ride the storm out."

The only problem was that the proprietor came to us a few hours later and said Agnes was coming our way, and he had to close the motel until Agnes had passed. I was mad.

I argued with Dad. Can't we stay here? Or camp out on the beach? Surely a hurricane is not all that big of a deal. I wanted to be able to tell my friends that I had survived a hurricane. I didn't win the argument though.

We packed up and headed north, along with the rest of the world, it seemed.

We drove from town to town until we finally found a vacancy in a tiny bug infested motel in Crestview, Florida. The motel had two rooms available, each with one double bed. We took one room; the Minters took the other. There were five of us.

I don't recall the sleeping arrangements, but the lack of beds, coupled with the violent storm, kept some of us awake most of the night.

We were all up early the next morning, and we went out to survey the damage. Agnes hadn't hit Crestview hard; we hadn't lost electricity and there were no visible signs of damage. Dad suggested we go get something to eat.

The shelves in the grocery stores were empty, but we found a little restaurant with a long line and we decided to try our luck there.

After what seemed forever, we finally were seated at a table. And after another forever, a waiter showed up and took our order. And after yet another forever -- the food hadn't come yet -- the restaurant owner came out of the kitchen and announced that his cook had just quit and there was no one who could do the cooking!

Dad and Mr. Minter looked at each other, and Dad said, "Come on." The two men stood up and approached the owner.

I'll cook breakfast, but we'll only do pancakes, sausages, and scrambled eggs," said Dad to the owner. The owner was relieved and grateful, and the patrons in the restaurant were happy.

For the next two or three hours, we didn't see Dad or Mr. Minter because they were back in the kitchen cooking. When they finally finished and came out, they looked worn out and a little bedraggled, but the remaining customers in the restaurant applauded.

We drove back down to Fort Walton Beach. A palm tree had fallen into the room where we had been staying, but the motel manager opened up another room for us.

For another day or two, we pretty much had the beach to ourselves!

The vacation ended up well. We had survived Agnes, and though we didn't see the brunt of the storm, I was happy because I still had my share of exciting stories that I could tell my friends when I got home.

I couldn't wait to tell them all about Agnes!