Dear Editor:

How Joe Gelarden's last column (Oct. 6) roused memories of hurricanes endured!

The summer of 1954, I worked at The Smiling Cow. It was owned then by Jean Blakemore. I worked in the low end, clerking the touristy items, supervised by a wonderful woman, Elizabeth Upton. The high end was devoted to high fashion, and featured a large plate glass window overlooking the party boat dock. As Hurricane Carol approached, we all crowded at that window, agreeing that when the gangplanks lifted to slant in our direction, we would leave! And so it came to pass. I called home, my mother came and got me, we spent some time nailing things down on the homefront.

When Hurricane Edna came through, it was even more exciting, because the storm hit before anyone expected it. My stepfather had been working the far side of Adams Pond; he swung by and picked me up. The rain was slashing down, very hard to see the road. I opened the car window so I could keep my eye on the road's outer edge -- it wasn't marked in white in those days. Slow going, me reporting to Dad when he was too near the edge. But obviously, we made it. Mother made hot rum toddies, and I was allowed to have one, reward for navigating.

And then I went off to college in a Philadelphia suburb. Along came Hurricane Hazel in late October. That storm never came close to Maine, but turned inland, due west, crossed the campus. The building I was in had a large Commons room; students crowded to the windows to see sparks whipping about from electric lines. Suddenly, the top of one elm was lifted from its trunk, spun around a few times, then landed on the ground beside the tree. We spent the rest of the night playing cards under the red exit light. It seemed like a scene from hell. One student was injured when a lamp post was blown over on top of her. Her neck was broken, but not fatally. She spent the rest of the year in a bulky neck cast.

Jo Cameron

Edgecomb