It was a freak, this storm, self-propelled with an impossible-to-imagine natural power up from the Gulf, flying as the crow flies with the Mississippi Valley its guide, then veering eastward to arrive in Toronto late on a Friday afternoon. We hurried home from school, released early to get to home and shelter before she hit. Her name was Hazel, called so long before an era that demanded men’s names be included in the naming of storms, that yes, if we must anthropomorphize, gender should be fairly represented.
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