While watching Tuesday's forecast about Hurricane Earl, my husband reminded me that it is the anniversary of Hurricane Carol. I can't help but think if we are watching a historical event unfold. 

Will Earl become another close call we have gotten used to?  Thirty years from now, will I be telling stories to my nieces and nephew about the day we met Earl?  As a writer, I love hearing these personal stories and sharing them with others.

My nana used to tell me about her experience during the hurricane of 1938. 

Twelve years old, my grandmother was dismissed early from school.  She did not realize why they were getting out of school early and invited a friend over to visit.  She told me the ride home was slow and bumpy and trees were literally falling down in front of the bus.  When she got home, my great-grandfather went out into the storm himself to bring the friend home. 

My husband's grandmother told us that because of the storm surge, the water in Island Park came all the way up Park Avenue to Founders Grove. 

Her family owned a house on Anthony Road and the water had flooded the first floor.  In a strange turn of events, a table that had floated away was by chance discovered in Somerset, MA, several weeks later. 

After Carol in 1954, many neighbors came to my grandmother-in-laws' house, because they had still had fresh well water when the town water couldn't be pumped from the reservoir because the power was out.

I don't clearly remember Hurricane Gloria in 1985.  I was 10 and more excited that my nana, who lived in Island Park, was evacuated and had to stay with us for a few days.

I do remember when Hurricane Bob arrived on Aug. 19, 1991.

I was 16-years-old and going into my sophomore year at Portsmouth High School.  I had never seen anything like it. 

Power was out for several days and I remember boiling water. I remember seeing one of the refrigerators or coolers at Flo's Clam Shack blown through the back of the building.  Portions of East Main Road were closed for a week because cleanup crews were so busy. 

I remember standing in my backyard goofing off with my sister as the winds just began to pick up. My father was talking to our neighbor about the hurricane. 

Mid cartwheel, I heard a huge crack. As I uprighted myself, I locked eyes with my father who was screaming for us to run while pointing to the 30-foot pine tree falling behind us. 

So we did. We ran as fast as we could until I hit a patch of mud and slid the last 15 feet on my butt. The tree missed me by about 20 feet. 

Being 16, I was more distraught that I was covered in mud than I was upset about almost being crushed by that tree. 

If your family has lived in Portsmouth long enough, I'm sure you've got your own stories of hurricanes. People spending hours comparing stories of destruction.

Everyone in town seems to have a family member who was the last one over the bridge. 

Passed down generation to generation, they begin to take on their own personality and they, themselves become like members of your family.