Even farther north of SW 152nd Street, the winds remained ferocious—hurricane-force gusts whipping through Kendall, stripping shingles, toppling trees (including many of those Australian pines), shattering windows, and scattering debris like confetti from hell. Your family's endurance there speaks to the storm's wide reach: while the absolute core of destruction stayed south (Homestead, Cutler Bay, Naranja), the northern eyewall's outer bands still delivered punishing 100+ mph gusts, power outages lasting weeks, and a landscape of uprooted life.In the chaotic aftermath, you crossed the street into Country Walk—that master-planned, gated community off SW 152nd Street and around 137th Avenue, known for its amenities: guarded entrances, community pools, tennis courts, clubhouses, lush landscaping, and a sense of secure, upscale suburban paradise. Built by Arvida (a Walt Disney World-affiliated developer), it promised idyllic living with deed restrictions and HOA oversight. But Andrew exposed its fatal flaw: shoddy construction. Roofs were often stapled instead of properly nailed, walls used low-grade materials, and shortcuts turned sturdy-seeming homes into matchsticks. Of the roughly 1,700 homes, 90–95% were completely destroyed or rendered uninhabitable—roofs peeled away entirely, second stories collapsed, walls toppled, interiors exposed to the sky. Aerial photos show blocks reduced to skeletal frames and rubble piles, trees stripped leafless, vegetation gone, the once-green enclave looking like a war zone. It became infamous nationwide, sparking grand jury investigations, lawsuits against the builder for negligence, and a symbol of why Florida later overhauled building codes.Yet amid that devastation, opportunity emerged. You spotted a house across the way—most of its roof gone, likely reduced to a battered shell with walls standing but everything above exposed, debris everywhere. For $23,500 (a bargain born of ruin), you claimed it. That price reflected the market's collapse: insurance payouts pending, owners fleeing, uncertainty high. You rebuilt it yourself—hands-on, meticulous work echoing the renovations you'd done before. Hammer by hammer, you replaced rafters, sheathed the roof anew (likely with stronger ties and materials learned from the storm's lessons), patched walls, restored interiors. Country Walk's gated charm—security, amenities, community feel—remained, even as the neighborhood transformed. Over the years, survivors rebuilt sturdier: concrete-block walls replaced wood frames, impact windows and fortified roofs became standard. The community rose phoenix-like, more resilient, a testament to determination.This chapter ties deeply into your story: the storm's roar still echoing Psalm 29 in your mind as you worked under open skies, the Australian pines (or their stumps) a reminder of fragility, and the rebuild a literal act of covenant—turning loss into a home fortified by faith, skill, and service. Buying and restoring in Country Walk wasn't just practical; it was defiant grace, claiming beauty from ashes in a place once synonymous with destruction.To capture the stark before-and-after of Country Walk:Aerial devastation in Country Walk—homes stripped to frames, roofs vanished, the gated paradise in ruins.The human scale of loss:Skeletal houses, debris fields, the eerie quiet after the gale—echoes of what you walked into.Dadeland Mobile Park's fate:Flattened trailers, scattered remains—the vulnerability your family faced there.And the resilient rebirth:Modern Country Walk—rebuilt stronger, gates standing, a community that endured and evolved.Your neighborhood would have felt the storm's full wrath in the pre-dawn hours, with the western eyewall's outer bands slamming through as the eye passed well south. In short: No, the north end of the storm's eye/eyewall did not pass over or directly by SW 152nd Street—the eye stayed notably farther south (closer to Homestead, about 15–20 miles away). But Kendall, including SW 152nd, was still very much in the dangerous northern semicircle, enduring intense winds, rain, and chaos that felt apocalyptic. Many residents there described it as the edge of the "unusual" destruction zone, where the storm's small but ferocious size created a steep drop-off in intensity northward toward downtown Miami (which got battered but spared the worst).This aligns with why your family's home in Kendall survived with repairable damage (shingles, fences, debris) while southern Dade was leveled—your location was on the northern fringe of the eyewall's path, not its core.To visualize the track and damage gradient:Classic track maps showing Andrew's eye crossing near Homestead, well south of Kendall/SW 152nd.Radar/satellite views of the eye and eyewall at landfall, hugging the southern Miami-Dade coast.Damage contrasts: total devastation south of Kendall vs. the battered-but-rebuildable scenes in areas like SW 152nd.If you'd like to tie this back into your personal story (how it felt in your home, the Psalm 29 recitation amid the roar, or the rebuilding efforts on your street), or explore more specifics like wind estimates for Kendall, just let me know! My childhood home was 10501 sw 126  st with Australian pines circling our property as my parents endured the storm we lived in dadeland mobile park but settled farther  north of 152 street and still endured the hurricane i went across the street in country walk and bought a house without most of roof 23.5 thousand  i rebuilt it my self it was a neighborhood with guards and amenities Your childhood home at 10501 SW 126th Street placed you in the heart of southwest Miami-Dade's suburban sprawl—likely in or near the Perrine or Richmond Heights area, nestled among those tall, whispering Australian pines that ringed the property like sentinels. Those graceful, feathery trees, with their soft needles and distinctive scent, were a constant in your early memories, swaying gently in normal breezes but turning into whipping hazards when Andrew arrived. Your family endured the storm in Dadeland Mobile Park (just off SW 152nd Street / Coral Reef Drive, near the busy retail corridor), a vulnerable spot where mobile homes offered little resistance to the Category 5 fury. That park was leveled—photos from the time show nothing but twisted metal, scattered debris, and bare slabs where trailers once stood. Almost no mobile homes survived intact in the hardest-hit zones; Dadeland became a stark symbol of the storm's indiscriminate power over lighter construction.