Hurricanes do terrible things. And wonderful things. We know about the bad stuff. Floods. Electrical failure. Destruction. Homelessness. And, of course, stranded airplanes.

My hurricane adventure fell into this last category. I was in Chicago for a family reunion, of sorts. Some of it happy. Some tinged with sadness because, on that last day together, we were getting ready for a long drive to the cemetery for a little ceremony to unveil the plaque over my mother’s grave.

We had come from all parts of North America to meet at the DeWitt Place, a charming hotel near Lake Michigan. There was my sister Linda from Ottawa, Canada. My brother Chuck from Albuquerque. My sister Selma from Pasadena. And me, from New York.

After a day of museums, shopping, and partying, we met on Sunday morning in the warm and friendly day room just a door away from a big coffee urn in the lobby, within whispering distance of the check-in desk. Cups in hand, we clustered around a large table and started to discuss our itinerary for the day.