This is a follow on post to: Hurricane Janet – 22 September 1955.
70 years on Clem Griffiths recalls Hurricane Janet.
Some Bajans measure life by elections, others by cricket matches – but me? By hurricanes.
My first brush was Janet of 1955, though at two years old I nearly slept through it… until a plum tree branch tried to rearrange my head. Add an 80-year-old lioness, a runaway stove thief, and a mother who could cuss like a sailor, and you have the kind of hurricane story that could only be Bajan.
For me, Hurricane Janet has always been like a ghost—showing up every summer to haunt me, even though I was far too young to remember her firsthand. Still, every year around hurricane season, my brain does a hard-drive scan and retrieves that old rhyme:
“June, too soon;
July, stand by;
August, come they must;
September, remember;
October, all over.”
Once that kicks in, I find myself glued to the weather channels, following the swirling shapes on the radar and hoping all will be well for my Caribbean family. So far, we’re at September 2025 and all is calm. I’m actually sleeping at night – quite a contrast to 2021, when I woke my wife at some ungodly hour to announce that Elsa was knocking at the door and most likely pushing towards Cat-1 before morning. That was the first serious “kick-up” Barbados had felt since Janet in 1955.
Now, Janet of 1955 was no ordinary storm.
For me, she’s become the stuff of bedtime stories – the kind we heard while sipping cocoa tea and crunching Eclipse crackers.
I am the Bajan son of Marjorie Richard and Lisle Griffith.
At the time of Janet, my father was on duty with the Barbados Fire Department, while my mother was working as a domestic at a hotel in Hastings.
“Guard duty” was left to an elderly lady in her 80s – Miss Sarah Blackman, formerly of Barbados Life Insurance Company. We called her “Blackie”, and she was much more than a caretaker; she was a mentor and spiritual guide who laid a foundation in me that would shape my moral and spiritual compass for life.
On that day it was me, barely two years old, along with my three siblings – Angela, Winston (better known as Roy), and Barbara – huddled under her care in a little chattel house on Dunlow Lane.
Now, Bajans love to trace connections, so let me not be remiss. My mother Marjorie was the sister of Jerry Richard, who later became a sports announcer with Rediffusion and CBC. My brother Winston – yes, the same Roy Richards – earned the nickname “Go-Flook,” and did a stint as lead singer with the Troubadours, making his mark on the Barbados music scene.
Angela, Barbara, and I lived more ordinary lives, though ordinary in Barbados still comes with plenty of stories.
The crisis for us came early in the morning when the roof of the little board-and-shingle house partially gave way under the weight of a plum tree limb – yes, the very same plum tree that would later become my favourite backyard dessert stop. The branch landed squarely on the bed where I was sleeping, narrowly missing my toddler head.
Swift to act, this 80-something lioness scooped me into her arms, daisy-chained my siblings to her dress, and abandoned ship. Her destination: the only known safe house, St. Paul’s Anglican Church on Bay St. about 500m away.
Photograph: Kevin Chapman taken Dec 2022 uploaded to Google Maps.
I don’t recall the trek, but the stories say there was biting wind, biting rain, flying galvanise, and debris enough to make you think twice about stepping outside. Some say the surf was biting her ankles as she trudged along, though that might be part of the lore handed down to me. What’s certain is that she got us there in one piece, turning into a sanctuary crowded with families, the building itself taking a beating from the storm.
The “surf biting ankles” story, I suspect, belongs more to my distraught mother. Once the storm eased, she set off from Hastings, walking all the way back to Dunlow Lane to find us. According to her exact words, she arrived “just in time.” Still anxious, she checked Blackie’s house, saw the damage, and then noticed her own little dwelling. What did her eyes behold? A man calmly walking away with her treasured stove.
Now, let me say two things about my mother: she knew how to cuss like a Bajan, and she knew how to fight like a man. “Not today, mister!” she shouted, before repossessing the stove and marching on to St. Paul’s to find her children. Hurricanes may come and go, but you need a lioness in the camp. I had the privilege of two.
Today, as a retiree, I find myself reflecting on those days while channelling the lessons into something practical. Back then, it took lion-hearted women to keep us safe. Today, I try to channel that same spirit into helping build stronger, more resilient homes for Caribbean families. The going is tough, but like any good Bajan, I will press on. So, stay tuned.
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