So many references to Hurricane Irene. Today, you get the story.

The Outer Banks of North Carolina have been a Pope-pourri family vacation spot for decades. Long before it was trendy, the Pope-pourris sojourned to the "OBX" annually for two week excursions on  Emerald Isle, our favorite destination.

In 2011, my mom secured a two week rental, a huge house on Emerald Isle's beachy neighbor, Pine Knoll Shores. She and my dad would stay for the duration with my brother's three daughters, ages 10 to 14. My family was invited, along with Aunt, Sister, and a few cousins.

Husband begged off. Work.

I see now that he was incredibly intelligent - prescient even - to pass on that trip. He also tried to warn me. Did I really think any good was going to come of this trip?

I did think something good was going to come of this trip. This was the vacation of my childhood. I was eager to pass that experience to my children.

I should never be eager to pass my childhood experiences to my children.

What could I possibly have to smile about?

I decided to spend the full two weeks on Pine Knoll Shores. I would take my kids to my favorite restaurant, the inexplicably named Sanitary Fish Market, where they could see a giant (dead) man-eating clam. We would explore the Aquarium at Pine Knoll Shores where they could learn about hometown-boy-done-bad Blackbeard, the dreaded pirate. They would swim in the Atlantic, unchecked by lifeguards. You know, swim out past the breakers. Watch the world die.

And you know what? All of that came to pass. Even the world dying.

I'm still living with the ghost of that trip.

Day 1 of our fateful trip. My parents and I had rented a minivan that would accommodate the eight of us  - me, my two kids, my parents, and my brother's three kids - for our voyage. We left at 4 o'clock in the morning.

Allow me to say two things here. One, my brother and his kids' mom did not accompany us on any leg of this trip. Did they, like Husband, have some foreknowledge? To say my brother was too smart to go would be ranking his intelligence above mine.

So let's go with foreknowledge. My brother has ESP. Sure. That works.

Two, this drive should have taken us 8 hours. It took us fourteen.

My parents took turns driving while I managed the gaggle of children. During my mom's shift, I noticed that we were headed north.

With my dad napping blissfully in the passenger seat, it was up to me to point out that North Carolina is, in fact, south of Pennsylvania.

No, my mom said. My dad had told her to go this way.

I get it. I do. My dad used to drive buses for Greyhound. He literally knows how to get everywhere. And as such, in that moment I knew that my dad knew that in no universe does North Carolina lie to the north of Mr. Penn and his woods.

No Mom, I said. You can't go ever go north to reach the Outer Banks from our house.

Really, she said. We're fine.

I woke my dad.

So no, we weren't supposed to be going north.

But, my mom insisted, you said north.

No, my dad replied, I said south or east.

This is how my father gives directions. Take X route south or east. Take Y route north or west. I knew, after 35 years of listening to my dad give directions, that south and east are always paired in his direction giving. Likewise for north and west.

Apparently, I have known my dad longer than my mom has known my dad. She was positive - positive - my dad had said north or east. She'd had the option of going north or south. She went north since there was no east.

I pointed out that we were still moving, still going north. Away from the Outer Banks.

By the time we reached our house, the children - I'm including myself here - were cranky and hungry. I was ready for pizza. Shedding the dust of travel in the pool. Bed.

My mom was ready for the Sanitary Fish Market.

Have you ever been locked in a car for 14 hours with five kids ages 3 to 14, violent motion sickness, and two parents who seem to have awoken married to each other only that morning? No?

Then don't judge me for going along with the Sanitary Fish Market Plan.

Sadly, it did not take long for the Sanitary Fish Market Plan to unravel. Nobody cared about the giant man-eating clam. No one wanted to eat the hot hush puppies. Hush puppies look GROSS and are they made out of PUPPIES because I'm not eating something made out of DOGS and I just want to go to BED and the clam is STUPID.

I asked the waitress to put our food in doggie bags. I told my mom we had to go. I tried again to highlight the impressiveness of the man eating clam because I have more than a little bit of my mom in me. Sometimes I just can't let go of a bad idea.

Day 2 in our tropic port. My mom volunteered to get groceries. I compiled a list, then my dad and I rounded up the five kids to head to the beach.

Day 3 went exactly the same way. Exactly the same way. My mom went grocery shopping. My dad and I rounded up the kids.

Day 4. My mom went grocery shopping. Again. My dad and I rounded up the kids. Again. But this day was different.

There was an earthquake.

We spent that afternoon swimming in our pool. In the evening, we learned that Virginia had experienced a 5.8 magnitude earthquake. So powerful, vibrations had been felt all the way to North Carolina.

Wow. I had felt nothing. I assumed we were too far south.

We weren't too far south, my dad said. He had felt it. We were in the pool.

Why didn't he say anything? His entire complement of grandchildren - at the time - were in that pool. And his favorite kid. Why hadn't he said something?

Wasn't strong, my dad said. We were safe.

Sure. We were only in a pool sandwiched between the ocean and a three-story house. Has he never seen The Impossible? The Poseidon Adventure? Deep Impact?

Well, no. He doesn't watch movies A) in color or B) filmed after 1944. He also doesn't worry about anything. Ever.

Day 4 also differed from Days 2 and 3 because of the hurricane.

Husband texted me. Irene is coming your way, he said. Keep an eye on the news. Pack a "go" bag.

Day 5. The weather started getting rough. The ocean had become too tumultuous to swim. The kids, my dad, and I stuck to the pool. Hour by hour, my Weather Channel app assured me that Irene had our island dead in her sights.

I can see the storm coming. Can you?

I suggested we leave.

"Pah," scoffed my mom. "We've been coming here for 40 years. There's always hurricane warnings. The locals don't even leave. We're staying."

Husband was just as resolute, but in opposition to my mom. Get my kids off that island, he warned, or I'll come do it myself.

All day I pleaded. I reasoned. I kept the Weather Channel on the TV. Mandatory evacuations were just a matter of time. Please. Please let's go.

My mom refused to budge. Forty years. Hurricane warnings are constant. Nobody leaves.

That night, I lay in the subterranean bedroom I shared with my kids. Hourly, I checked my Weather Channel app. As the wind and ocean kicked up outside my window, I began to check quarter hourly.

Irene was headed right for Pine Knoll Shores.

In the morning, I pleaded again.

Nope, my mom said. We're fine. My cousins that had arrived Day 2 concurred with my mom. I was being dramatic. Histrionic.

Because, you know, I'm the one who overreacts in the Pope-pourri family.

Fine, I said. Stay. I'm renting my own car and getting myself and all the kids out.

Well jeez, my mom sighed. If you feel that strongly about it, we'll go.

Really?! That's what it took to clinch it? Threatening to leave? Not the Category 1 cyclone gunning for us? Not Sam Champion urging us to go? Not Skip Waters predicting mass destruction? We've been watching Skip Waters for 40 years. Skip Waters wouldn't lie to us!

I sent my nieces to pack necessities. I grabbed my "go" bag. Nine o'clock in the morning. I was ready.

But apparently, before we could leave, my mom had "some things" to do. Maybe my dad and I could take the kids to the aquarium? You know, a three hour tour?

Oh, little aquarium shark. Do you think you're safe? Are any of us safe here?

We finally left late in the afternoon, headed for a hotel my mom had booked while we idled at the aquarium. Two hours from our beach house - which we hoped to return to - it certainly held promise. Indoor pool. Complimentary breakfast. Twenty-four hour snack shop. It even had a Target nearby.

A Target with a Starbucks.

Just as we crossed the bridge to the mainland, my phone rang with an alert. Mandatory evacuation of all Outer Banks. We had beat the exodus by mere minutes.

Day 7 of our uphill climb. Leaving my nieces with my dad at the hotel, my mom and I trucked off to Target for supplies. I was also going to get two - no, four - days' worth of Starbucks.

But the Starbucks was dark. Empty as a deserted isle. Panicked, I flagged down a Target employee. Why wasn't the Starbucks open? Where was the staff?

With her charming Southern laissez-faire, she shrugged that the Starbucks staff had just not come in that day.

I demanded answers. Did you call them? Did anyone call them?! Please call them!

Sometimes, she shrugged, that just happens with Starbucks.

An untold number of days in a hotel with five kids and no Starbucks? I was clearly devolving from The Skipper to Piggy - subjected to the decisions and self-preservation of others. No Starbucks?! What am I, Superman? HOW WILL I SURVIVE?!

Dejected, I moved onto my shopping list. My mom was securing a few days' worth of meals that could be prepared in a hotel room. I was securing supplies for when the boys burned down the island.

Non-perishable food. Bottled water. Flashlights. Batteries. Duct tape. Fortunately, I already had my Cabela's Multipurpose Tool. Everything from a knife to scissors to needlenose pliers in one handy $5 package.

My mom balked at my purchases. The hotel likely had a generator. Why bother with flashlights? The snack shop has water. Sodas, even. And what was the purpose of the duct tape?

"The duct tape," I said flatly, "is in case we need to tape cardboard over the windows. Or stop people from eating our food rations."

"Would you duct tape me?" she asked.

I'd duct tape her first.

We returned to the hotel. I stashed my supplies. I settled the children in bed. I went to the 24 hour snack shop, where I picked up a Snickers bar and discovered that - mercifully - the snack shop had Blue Moon. Lots and lots of Blue Moon.

The storm hit our hotel in the wee hours. I listened as it buffeted and pummeled our inland hotel. I watched as the lights went out. For an hour, the hotel remained dark.

No generator.

Sadly, Irene portended the end of our tropic island nest. We were unable to return to our house in Pine Knoll Shores. We went home, never more happy to be back from a vacation. The drive home was almost as bad as the drive down. Due to power outages, I was relegated to using the shade of a tractor trailer to pee.

A lot of people were relegated to peeing under that tractor trailer.

But one problem remained. We had left many belongings at the house. It would take weeks for the rental agency to return everything to us. My parents speculated that maybe they would return to Pine Knoll Shores to expedite the process.

So here is where I remind you that I am a control freak. Sometimes - sometimes - I try to control other people. I was not thrilled at the idea of my parents going back, and I told them so. We could all wait for the rental agency to send our belongings. End of discussion.

Except the next day my phone rang. It was my mom. But when I answered the phone, I immediately realized that she had butt dialed me. My mom was asking my dad how they were going to explain "it" to me.

I later learned that "it" was their plan to fly to North Carolina and retrieve our belongings. My mom's accidental call had occurred while she and my dad waited for their flight.

Tell her the truth, my dad urged.

My mom disagreed. If they told me the truth, I'd be angry. She didn't want me to be angry.

So lie, my dad said.

But my mom was opposed to lying to me as well. Because I'm so smart - her words, I'm just repeating them - I would figure out my parents had lied. So what should they tell me?

The truth, my dad repeated.

But if we tell the truth, my mom replied, I would be angry with them. She didn't want me to get angry. What should they tell me?

Lie, my dad said.

My parents continued, completely unaware that I was listening to every single word.

I hung up after three cycles. For all I know, they're still having this conversation.

This is all nearly five years in the past. When I sat down to write this, I texted my mom that I was writing about our last OBX vacation and needed to verify where we had stayed.

Why, she asked. Did something happen while we were there?



Yes, Mom. Something happened there.


The Binge
This is Round 2 of documentary recommendations. You can find Round 1 here. To truly appreciate these films, I suggest you don't Google any of the stories before you watch. They are made all the more scary for their veracity. Don't watch alone. Or in the dark.

There's Something Wrong With Aunt Diane. In 2009, Diane Schuler was in a car crash that killed eight people, including herself. What caused the crash? Does the story go beyond that July day? The investigation - and the questions it raises - will surprise you. Available on HBO On Demand and Amazon.

The Imposter. A boy in Texas goes missing. Years later, he turns up in Spain. What happens next will put your jaw on the floor because this story is seriously f***ed up. Available On Demand and Netflix.

Dear Zachary: A Letter To A Son About His Father. This story starts with a man named Andrew. It ends inexplicably and unbelievably. Watch knowing this and nothing more. Available on Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon.

Making A Murderer. Unless you live under a rock, you've heard about this Netflix series. Buttress your viewing with Alec Baldwin's interview of the filmmakers on his podcast Here's The Thing. Even they aren't sure if Steven Avery, the film's subject, is guilty.