Ernesto has passed by and all is well. I had the hatches battened. I was on alert for my flooding basement and kept the elements at bay. I couldn't post because my power kept flickering. But today all is well and I only have 4 extra house guests who don't have power. (Three more arrived this morning while I was writing this post!) I love storm parties. In anticipation of the storm I stocked up on snack foods and mixers, plus some of my guests have brought their melting freezer contents. So we are all fine, thanks for worrying.

Peggy & I had planned to take our parents out for dinner last night. Despite the sideways rain and widespread power outages, we continued with our plans, even though our first choice of restaurant was also in the dark. When we arrived at Smokey Bones barbecue restaurant, we saw that many folks in town without power had ended up here. Since it was crowded and we had to wait, Peggy & I decided we ought to get a drink to pass the wait more pleasantly. (Can I say “pleasantly?”) I gave my dad a taste of my Blue Moon beer that they served with an orange slice. The waiting pager went off with lights and vibrations as soon as he took a sip – as if his drinking a beer set off alarms.

Anyway, something about a storm brings the friendly out. While we were waiting for our drink order, we got involved in an animated conversation with two strangers at the bar about our whiskey and bourbon opinions, our mothers, our religious upbringing, and how our experiences didn't equal what we were taught as children. By the time we returned to the lobby with our mother's drinks,they were beginning to get worried about us.

Fortunately for us we were hungry. So when the waiter arrived at our table, we ordered appetizers and another round of drinks. I say fortunately because before they could cook our dinner order, the restaurant lost power too. The friendly manager checked on us and I said we would finish our drinks and see if the power returned, which it didn't.

Some of you know my mom personally. She needs to be fed on a regular basis. It was important that we get her food or else her inner bitch comes out to play. So when the waiter came out with a tray of food, we were hoping maybe ours was some of the food that made it to the grill before the outage. But no such luck. We heckled the table beside us with “Lucky!” The three kids and the parents talked to us for a couple minutes. It was one boy's birthday – now powerless. I encouraged Peggy to offer the kids a dollar for a fry. When she turned around, she saw that they all three had ordered mac and cheese. Darn! That would have been funny. We were foiled by pasta.

Just as I finished my beer and we were trying to calculate an approximation of our bill, the dad beside us came over and asked if we really hadn't had dinner. He offered his leftovers, two sandwich halves that they had cut with a knife so the “Had not even been touched.” I looked over at Mom, caught Peggy's eye, and determined, yes, in this situation, food from strangers was a better option.

Is that gross? It was a gesture of kindness that I decided was more important that dignity or germophobia. His name was Jamie. I wonder at what point in their meal they decided to preserve some of their food for the hungry masses?

Warmed by the family's act of generosity, Peggy flagged down the waiter and checked on the status of the melting ice cream. She insisted that the children behind us get some for the boy's darkened birthday. He obliged and we led the restaurant in a loud round of “Happy Birthday to Joshua.” Even our friends at the bar joined in the singing.

I love storms. They bring out the best in everyone.