One of my favorite sounds the people make is that last sigh before they pass out in this world and cross over to dreams. I put them to bed every evening and wait for that release to make my creeping tip toe out of their room and into my own peace and quiet. Tonight, after what for me was an absolutely incredible day, save the final Metallica blast freak out performance by my overtired, overwrought, juiced up three and 3/4 year old, I put the girls in their beds and waited. The youngest, she of epic meltdown fame, passed out so quickly I was still talking to her. She fell asleep sitting up, propped by pillows and lulled by the sound of the Miami sound machine (of course it wasn't Miami Sound Machine, that stuff is too high energy, but I cannot help but call the white noise nature sounds the MSM) but Lily, the oldest sweet pea wanted to recount the details of her glorious day and reassure me that, after the earlier insanity, I was indeed a decent mother. (Thank you, Lily.)
The day really had been incredible. After waiting out the blizzard inside watching Barbie videos, doing massive craft projects, and coloring book marathons, we were finally free this morning to get out and dip into the powdery white stuff. I can't lie. It was awesome and took me right back to the Blizzard of '78. I remember walking in my backyard and saddling up to the five foot fence that protected the yard and standing over it. The reflection of the light on all that white snow made it look and feel like we were all on some luminescent planet. I thought to say the moon, but I suspected that it was too dark, like all the grainy photos showed. Jumping into those snow drifts with the girls made me giddy out of my mind and seeing the joy on their faces, their rosy cheeks, their elation was contagious.
I am often asked, especially when faced with crummy weather, too much rain or snow or cold, if I miss my life in the Caribbean. Frankly, the answer is resoundingly NO! I have always loved the seasons. I think it's what we all say when faced with the furthest corner, pointiest angle on the weather dial in each season--too much rain or snow or cold, no one ever gets crazy about the heat asking if I'd rather be in Barbados, maybe because they recall that I told them it could be stiflingly hot on fire and disarmingly humid. But I do so love a change of season and even more to live in each one of them and feel fully what each has to offer. Whether that is the hottest hot summer, allergy-provoking spring with rain, rain, rain, and more rain, chilly falls with those deliciously colored leaves, apple picking, and outdoor sporting events where it's just a tiny bit too cold, and then this. Powdery, fluffy, scary, freaking-everyone-the-fuck-out snow!
As it's falling, there is that nervous energy, expectation, hope, fear that it just might get too much to handle. Once we're safely inside the house watching it from the window, it makes everything around us look so peaceful, so calm, so still. After, there is the shoveling, the removal, the clearing away, when the air takes over your lungs, and it breathes in so clean and blue, and everyone looks beautiful in that light. It feels like that freezing cold water you jump into after sweating it out in the steam room. It hurts a little bit, is completely shocking, and then you feel incredible that you dared do it, handled it, and can get back up and sweat it out again. Falling into a pile of snow, a huge bank of it, feels like falling into the clouds. It makes you giggle and that silliness is infectious. The girls and I spent the morning making snow forts and chairs and throwing snowballs, marching our tracks into the deep banks, and (for those two) eating, eating, and eating snow!
The highlight of today had to be the sledding. Lily walked over with some friends and Virginie and I followed behind. Following behind meant Virginie walking a little, being carried a little or a lot, then walking or trudging through the snow, being carried, walking and arriving at a hill across from the town hall where dozens of kids were sledding their faces off. Really. Everyone was red and ruddy-cheeked, all smiles, and laughter. Lily must have gone down that hill twenty times, forwards, backwards, spinning around, over bumps and hills, flat terrain. Virginie and I worked as a team and went down probably ten times on our own. Each time we got to the bottom, we laughed and smiled, jumped up and raced back to the top of the hill. When we'd finally had our fill, the three of us walked home with our good friends and had an early dinner, beer, wine, wicked conversation, full on play for the girls. All of which ended with the terrorizing, "I'm so crazy I am going to make you wonder if you are a good mother" fall out proffered by the three and 3/4 year old tired out of her brain.
By the time I was back in my own room, make up off, snuggled in the bed, reading on line, writing, and watching TV, all was forgiven because really, nothing could take away the joy from this beautiful, snowy day.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Showing posts with label storm. Show all posts
Showing posts with label storm. Show all posts
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
There are worse things...Hurricane Sandy, Part II.
Rizzo, the sassy, brassy, bad girl from Grease sang, "There are worse things I could do..." and I keep hearing that refrain in my head though I am not quite talking about how badly I have behaved but rather considering how much worse it could all actually be. I am finding it difficult it to keep the smooth skin over the brewing frustration and discontent. I rarely go to my community's website because on a good day there is too much chatter about what someone else is doing wrong or in what way someone has been harmed or offended. While often a great source of information, the site is also filled with folks needing to vent, tear off heads and shit down people's necks about parking, PTA, town fairs, community events, neighbors, and now Hurricane Sandy and its handling by the utilities and municipal government.
To be put out, indignant about our current situation, enough to blow up in the streets, puts me on edge. Perhaps it is my fear of an angry parent lashing out unexpectedly, randomly at the slightest infraction or the most horrific indignity with the same intensity, or my need to try to look on the bright side even while snidely bitching to myself and my closest peeps, or my naivete in expecting that people who tell me they are trying to help really are, but lengthy diatribes about "heads needing to roll" in the face of a horrific storm that brought death and total destruction to some and yes, a loss of power,heat, cable television, telephone, and internet to many others, are unfair and really not constructive. I don't mean to chastise because I know we all have our breaking points and we all need, desire, love our creature comforts. It is, in fact, quite surprising to discover just what it is we need for comfort until we are not able to have it. I totally get it.
When we were in Barbados during and after Tropical Storm Tomas and were looking at day five of no power, dwindling water supply, crying children, spoiling food, blazing heat and sweltering humidity, and animals trying to get into the house because they were scared out of their wits that whatever that was might happen again, I threatened to leave my husband and never return. I asked him why he dared put me and his children in harm's way. I brooded for days, trembled with panic, sweat my face off, and then came to my senses. Sure, I cried crocodile tears, hated the people who got power before we did, which in this case meant air conditioning and oscillating fans (oscillating fans!), resented those with cool drinking water and those who lived above sea level in the hills. I hated that though I longed for privacy, I needed to keep the windows and doors opened to keep from suffocating. I hated that my husband had to work through the clean up and I was forced to stay home alone with two kiddles. I heard myself say, "I am an American girl. I need my ____" whatever it was in that moment. I was spoiled and childish and tired and frustrated and upset in a country where I certainly had no right or ability to write to my public official days after the event and demand something be done for me now!
I had Hurricane Katrina and the Haitian earthquake in my memory and honestly, after surviving the house shaking, torrential rain-producing Tropical Storm Tomas, I felt the space between life and death, so tenuous, so silkworm-thread thin, that I thanked my lucky stars and tried to get on with it. I'd heard from my friend Kassandra who lived through Katrina what losing almost everything really felt like. It wasn't just uncomfortable and painful. It was soul crushing, energy sapping, despair producing. One could easily become catatonic with fear at the magnitude of the loss. The stories from Haiti were stunning. Seeing the images hit me at the core. What could really be said? This was life experienced at the fray. There are no words there. It is eerily quiet.
After Tomas, I decided to let go of my pride, my fear, my closed shell and open up to the friends who were reaching out to me. My good friend, Wendy, a lady I will know all my life, took me in, pep-talked me back to some level of sense, and slapped my cheeks with love and support to revive me. I learned that where I thought there were limits there was more to go and that I could endure it. I accepted that we each have our breaking points and that I would not condemn my own feelings or the feelings of others in relation to their own suffering, but that I would keep it in perspective. I empathize, I want to help. I want to listen. I want to confirm. I want to support.
Sitting in the middle of a community rendered power-less by downed trees, destroyed power lines, but with power myself, it is hard not to feel guilt, shame, discomfort at our good fortune. I do not dare complain about our lack of cable television, telephone, or internet when the temps outside are dropping well into the 40s at night and families are hunkered down, sleeping together in front of their fireplaces. I count the days with them and try to will the power back, but know that my ten cents mean nothing when showers are avoided because it's too cold to get out and bedtime comes when it gets dark. I remember the glow of the candles, trying to preserve the batteries, trying to find more batteries, becoming possessive of the flashlight, lashing out and crying out and calling out.
The sense of powerlessness to make it all better is only diminished by the ability to give and help in some way. Once we'd gotten home to find that not only was our house in tact, but that power had never failed (only the Comcast cable/telephone/internet), we were overwhelmed with the fatigue that comes after being held up by adrenaline. All I wanted to do was sleep. What I needed to do was see who needed help. We drove around with the girls in the car pointing out damaged homes, downed lines, mangled cars, patio furniture, broken trees. I wanted them to see that whatever suffering they felt at not being able to see Jake and the Neverland Pirates was nothing in comparison. When Lily saw the first images from the Jersey Shore, Staten Island, and lower Manhattan, she couldn't form the words to express the sheer magnitude of her terror. I could see it in her little face. How? Why? What will those people do? I felt worse than she because I had no answer. And because I'd grown up there. I knew those places.
Sandy brought out the light and the dark in nature and in each of us. It pummeled us, shook us, and tossed us about, and put our sense of survival and familial protection on heightened alert. She made us look at ourselves differently. Grease's Sandy wanted to change how she looked, in hopes of showing some depth, some strength and Rizzo wanted to put it all out there, pure aggression and strength to hide her vulnerability, her fearful self, her inner child. I hope that from this, we can all see both. That we have the strength to take care of ourselves and each other (more than we could ever imagine) and that we can accept being taken care of and being loved (more than we could ever allow).
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
To be put out, indignant about our current situation, enough to blow up in the streets, puts me on edge. Perhaps it is my fear of an angry parent lashing out unexpectedly, randomly at the slightest infraction or the most horrific indignity with the same intensity, or my need to try to look on the bright side even while snidely bitching to myself and my closest peeps, or my naivete in expecting that people who tell me they are trying to help really are, but lengthy diatribes about "heads needing to roll" in the face of a horrific storm that brought death and total destruction to some and yes, a loss of power,heat, cable television, telephone, and internet to many others, are unfair and really not constructive. I don't mean to chastise because I know we all have our breaking points and we all need, desire, love our creature comforts. It is, in fact, quite surprising to discover just what it is we need for comfort until we are not able to have it. I totally get it.
When we were in Barbados during and after Tropical Storm Tomas and were looking at day five of no power, dwindling water supply, crying children, spoiling food, blazing heat and sweltering humidity, and animals trying to get into the house because they were scared out of their wits that whatever that was might happen again, I threatened to leave my husband and never return. I asked him why he dared put me and his children in harm's way. I brooded for days, trembled with panic, sweat my face off, and then came to my senses. Sure, I cried crocodile tears, hated the people who got power before we did, which in this case meant air conditioning and oscillating fans (oscillating fans!), resented those with cool drinking water and those who lived above sea level in the hills. I hated that though I longed for privacy, I needed to keep the windows and doors opened to keep from suffocating. I hated that my husband had to work through the clean up and I was forced to stay home alone with two kiddles. I heard myself say, "I am an American girl. I need my ____" whatever it was in that moment. I was spoiled and childish and tired and frustrated and upset in a country where I certainly had no right or ability to write to my public official days after the event and demand something be done for me now!
I had Hurricane Katrina and the Haitian earthquake in my memory and honestly, after surviving the house shaking, torrential rain-producing Tropical Storm Tomas, I felt the space between life and death, so tenuous, so silkworm-thread thin, that I thanked my lucky stars and tried to get on with it. I'd heard from my friend Kassandra who lived through Katrina what losing almost everything really felt like. It wasn't just uncomfortable and painful. It was soul crushing, energy sapping, despair producing. One could easily become catatonic with fear at the magnitude of the loss. The stories from Haiti were stunning. Seeing the images hit me at the core. What could really be said? This was life experienced at the fray. There are no words there. It is eerily quiet.
After Tomas, I decided to let go of my pride, my fear, my closed shell and open up to the friends who were reaching out to me. My good friend, Wendy, a lady I will know all my life, took me in, pep-talked me back to some level of sense, and slapped my cheeks with love and support to revive me. I learned that where I thought there were limits there was more to go and that I could endure it. I accepted that we each have our breaking points and that I would not condemn my own feelings or the feelings of others in relation to their own suffering, but that I would keep it in perspective. I empathize, I want to help. I want to listen. I want to confirm. I want to support.
Sitting in the middle of a community rendered power-less by downed trees, destroyed power lines, but with power myself, it is hard not to feel guilt, shame, discomfort at our good fortune. I do not dare complain about our lack of cable television, telephone, or internet when the temps outside are dropping well into the 40s at night and families are hunkered down, sleeping together in front of their fireplaces. I count the days with them and try to will the power back, but know that my ten cents mean nothing when showers are avoided because it's too cold to get out and bedtime comes when it gets dark. I remember the glow of the candles, trying to preserve the batteries, trying to find more batteries, becoming possessive of the flashlight, lashing out and crying out and calling out.
The sense of powerlessness to make it all better is only diminished by the ability to give and help in some way. Once we'd gotten home to find that not only was our house in tact, but that power had never failed (only the Comcast cable/telephone/internet), we were overwhelmed with the fatigue that comes after being held up by adrenaline. All I wanted to do was sleep. What I needed to do was see who needed help. We drove around with the girls in the car pointing out damaged homes, downed lines, mangled cars, patio furniture, broken trees. I wanted them to see that whatever suffering they felt at not being able to see Jake and the Neverland Pirates was nothing in comparison. When Lily saw the first images from the Jersey Shore, Staten Island, and lower Manhattan, she couldn't form the words to express the sheer magnitude of her terror. I could see it in her little face. How? Why? What will those people do? I felt worse than she because I had no answer. And because I'd grown up there. I knew those places.
Sandy brought out the light and the dark in nature and in each of us. It pummeled us, shook us, and tossed us about, and put our sense of survival and familial protection on heightened alert. She made us look at ourselves differently. Grease's Sandy wanted to change how she looked, in hopes of showing some depth, some strength and Rizzo wanted to put it all out there, pure aggression and strength to hide her vulnerability, her fearful self, her inner child. I hope that from this, we can all see both. That we have the strength to take care of ourselves and each other (more than we could ever imagine) and that we can accept being taken care of and being loved (more than we could ever allow).
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
A poor man's Sandra Dee, Hurricane Sandy Part I.
Leading up to what would become Hurricane Sandy, a Category 1 hurricane that came and decimated the state where I grew up and essentially became me, there were lots of silly graphics showing its path. One that seemed to heavily make the rounds was one of Olivia Newton-John in the character of Sandy from Grease going from hair flipped, head-banded, kind-hearted Sandy to the fierce 70s-disco, Lycra-wearing, hair cork-screwed and wild, red Candie's slings, still kind-hearted Sandy. It gave me a giggle but really, it didn't ease my fears. After living through Tropical Storm Tomas in Barbados which kicked our asses and left us powerless and many waterless for five days (many more even longer than that) I knew there would be nothing cute and kind-hearted about it.
The Friday before the Monday storm, Didier and I began collecting supplies. Batteries, cases of water, soup, snacks for the kids (and way too many snacks for the mommy), and gas for the tank. We started charging the portable DVD players, yes players, downloading videos and games for the iPad, using and savoring the electricity. On Saturday morning, in a panic, I ran to Target to get a portable radio to find that they were sold out, and were wiped clean of all the water and C and D batteries. There were no flashlights, no tents, no lamps, lanterns, and very few coolers. I bought a cooler and six rain ponchos. We had five flashlights at home, bought as soon as Hurricane Irene had left us, because we'd been without even one when she hit. After Target I went to Pathmark, not sure for what, where I bought more Halloween candy (just in case the storm tracking as a direct hit on New Jersey somehow diverted and went out to sea and we'd be able to celebrate). There, I saw a woman buying twelve boxes of Wheat Thins. "I love them,"she told me. "And they are on sale!" Then the nervous laughter.
Of course there have been other massive hurricanes and bad storms in New Jersey's history. Just last year there was Irene. But none had the size and scope and sheer power that Sandy was bringing and most felt powerless. All the collecting and hoarding, removing Halloween decorations and tying down garbage cans, still did not provide comfort or ease the thickening air around us. By Monday, school was cancelled in anticipation. There was wind, but not much more than a typical windy or rainy day, and many said so, wishing their kids could be at school, hoping that this was all that was coming, that somehow the forecasters had gotten it wrong and that Sandy was just a little wind, a little rain. My stomach was in knots when it wasn't fluttering nervously wit butterflies. I did laundry, cleaned the house, refused to allow the kids to use the iPad, but did allow about ten hours of television, expecting the cable to go. And then we waited.
At about six-thirty we decided to head over to our friends' home on higher ground. Last year during Hurricane Irene, the creek behind our house flooded and our street was evacuated in the early morning hours in pitch blackness. I did not look forward to moving the girls during gale force winds and rain, so we got out of dodge and went a few blocks higher but still in town. We were in the house probably fifteen minutes when the power flickered and then went out. It would stay that way until...well, now. Our dear friends still have no power and I imagine that all the promises and mixed messages regarding its return are have begun to roll off their backs. They'll believe it when they see it. They are better than I. I just don't think I could do it with the girls, the cold, and the flashbacks of storms past. Such is my constitution. Our hosts, new friends, but incredibly warm, honest, and exceptionally decent, provided us all with shelter, warm beds, and good company.
While the kids went wild, having "the best sleepover ever" the adults sat at the table, opening lovely bottles of wine, falling silent only when a particularly strong gust of wind left us all with the feeling that the house might actually lift off. In the distance we saw flashing blue light and I, for one, assumed that a silent thunderstorm was also raging. Turns out the transformers in our small village were blowing one after another as trees and branches began battling with the power lines. In the darkness we could only guess what was happening out there, all of us listening intently for the sound of a crash of wood on wood that meant a tree had fallen on the house or the shattering of glass. Were it not for social media we would have been, quite literally, in the dark. News of Freehold, the town where I grew up, and other parts of southern New Jersey and the shore came in like Morse code. We got short dashes of information--power lines down, Atlantic City deluged, subway stations flooded--and envisioned the worst as we waited for pictures, all the while hoping that where we sat would not provide an equally devastating headline.
Bedtime for the kiddies was an enormous snugglefest with each tucked into a cute sleeping bag lined up like a row of princess pink and rainbow sardines and some sailboats on the end for the little brother of Lily's friend. I want to say that they were out like a light, but I was summoned to sit with mine for a little bit. Once all were fast asleep, I made my way back downstairs, where not a single adult was to be found. I could see small dots of light moving about in the night so I opened the front door to the howling wind to investigate. Walking through the yard and up the street were our hosts and my husband trying to make heads or tails of all the sounds and light flashes. Fearful of being struck by something, anything dangerous, all made their way back inside to the comfort and safety of the house.
Exhaustion came quickly, sleep less so. As I began dozing off next to the hubby, I would shudder and twitch and jolt at every loud sound, strain my ears to hear any peep from this kids' room. After hours of going in and out of consciousness, I heard Lily's whimper and went to the room to consult. A quick visit to the bathroom and a plea for me to massage her aching legs (growing pains) changed the sleep arrangements and Lily followed me to the room where her father, her little sister, and I had arranged ourselves. To prevent us from piling on top of one another, I proposed that Lily and I sleep on the floor. Virginie came down too leaving just Papa on the bed and the three ladies curled up on the floor. And even still I slept. In and out.
In the morning we all ventured out to see what Sandy had delivered. She'd come fierce and she'd come hard. There were enormous trees mangled and twisted, lying in the streets, across power lines, on rooftops, and across gardens. Power lines were everywhere. We'd been spared the expected rain and for that we were most grateful. Had severe flooding been added to the crazy mix we'd be weeks away from a return to basics instead of days. After a morning coffee and breakfast, we packed up our things and head home to see how we'd fared. As we zigzagged through our once idyllic community, absolute shock and awe struck our faces. Everything looked the same and yet completely and totally different. Our town felt vulnerable, raw, and stunned but also hopeful, motivated, and connected. The invisible lines of community began to glow like energy bands from one to another. People came out of their homes offering whatever they had, food, batteries, chainsaws, gas cans, skills and they started to immediately to try put it back together again.
As we rounded the corner to our street we saw light. Lights inside of our neighbors' homes! Our street had been spared the power outage that has disrupted most of the area. I heard music, tv's blaring, laughter. There were no downed trees, no power lines wiggling on the ground, no one outside. Just blocks away there was an eery calm, a silence, just the occasional hum of a chainsaw or just started generator. People were standing outside, staring in awe, thanking their stars the trees had fallen one way instead of another. Sandy had danced through the fun house in her tight pants all over our township, but on our street, she was still a poor man's Sandra Dee, quiet, wistful, hopeful. A wallflower.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
The Friday before the Monday storm, Didier and I began collecting supplies. Batteries, cases of water, soup, snacks for the kids (and way too many snacks for the mommy), and gas for the tank. We started charging the portable DVD players, yes players, downloading videos and games for the iPad, using and savoring the electricity. On Saturday morning, in a panic, I ran to Target to get a portable radio to find that they were sold out, and were wiped clean of all the water and C and D batteries. There were no flashlights, no tents, no lamps, lanterns, and very few coolers. I bought a cooler and six rain ponchos. We had five flashlights at home, bought as soon as Hurricane Irene had left us, because we'd been without even one when she hit. After Target I went to Pathmark, not sure for what, where I bought more Halloween candy (just in case the storm tracking as a direct hit on New Jersey somehow diverted and went out to sea and we'd be able to celebrate). There, I saw a woman buying twelve boxes of Wheat Thins. "I love them,"she told me. "And they are on sale!" Then the nervous laughter.
Of course there have been other massive hurricanes and bad storms in New Jersey's history. Just last year there was Irene. But none had the size and scope and sheer power that Sandy was bringing and most felt powerless. All the collecting and hoarding, removing Halloween decorations and tying down garbage cans, still did not provide comfort or ease the thickening air around us. By Monday, school was cancelled in anticipation. There was wind, but not much more than a typical windy or rainy day, and many said so, wishing their kids could be at school, hoping that this was all that was coming, that somehow the forecasters had gotten it wrong and that Sandy was just a little wind, a little rain. My stomach was in knots when it wasn't fluttering nervously wit butterflies. I did laundry, cleaned the house, refused to allow the kids to use the iPad, but did allow about ten hours of television, expecting the cable to go. And then we waited.
At about six-thirty we decided to head over to our friends' home on higher ground. Last year during Hurricane Irene, the creek behind our house flooded and our street was evacuated in the early morning hours in pitch blackness. I did not look forward to moving the girls during gale force winds and rain, so we got out of dodge and went a few blocks higher but still in town. We were in the house probably fifteen minutes when the power flickered and then went out. It would stay that way until...well, now. Our dear friends still have no power and I imagine that all the promises and mixed messages regarding its return are have begun to roll off their backs. They'll believe it when they see it. They are better than I. I just don't think I could do it with the girls, the cold, and the flashbacks of storms past. Such is my constitution. Our hosts, new friends, but incredibly warm, honest, and exceptionally decent, provided us all with shelter, warm beds, and good company.
While the kids went wild, having "the best sleepover ever" the adults sat at the table, opening lovely bottles of wine, falling silent only when a particularly strong gust of wind left us all with the feeling that the house might actually lift off. In the distance we saw flashing blue light and I, for one, assumed that a silent thunderstorm was also raging. Turns out the transformers in our small village were blowing one after another as trees and branches began battling with the power lines. In the darkness we could only guess what was happening out there, all of us listening intently for the sound of a crash of wood on wood that meant a tree had fallen on the house or the shattering of glass. Were it not for social media we would have been, quite literally, in the dark. News of Freehold, the town where I grew up, and other parts of southern New Jersey and the shore came in like Morse code. We got short dashes of information--power lines down, Atlantic City deluged, subway stations flooded--and envisioned the worst as we waited for pictures, all the while hoping that where we sat would not provide an equally devastating headline.
Bedtime for the kiddies was an enormous snugglefest with each tucked into a cute sleeping bag lined up like a row of princess pink and rainbow sardines and some sailboats on the end for the little brother of Lily's friend. I want to say that they were out like a light, but I was summoned to sit with mine for a little bit. Once all were fast asleep, I made my way back downstairs, where not a single adult was to be found. I could see small dots of light moving about in the night so I opened the front door to the howling wind to investigate. Walking through the yard and up the street were our hosts and my husband trying to make heads or tails of all the sounds and light flashes. Fearful of being struck by something, anything dangerous, all made their way back inside to the comfort and safety of the house.
Exhaustion came quickly, sleep less so. As I began dozing off next to the hubby, I would shudder and twitch and jolt at every loud sound, strain my ears to hear any peep from this kids' room. After hours of going in and out of consciousness, I heard Lily's whimper and went to the room to consult. A quick visit to the bathroom and a plea for me to massage her aching legs (growing pains) changed the sleep arrangements and Lily followed me to the room where her father, her little sister, and I had arranged ourselves. To prevent us from piling on top of one another, I proposed that Lily and I sleep on the floor. Virginie came down too leaving just Papa on the bed and the three ladies curled up on the floor. And even still I slept. In and out.
In the morning we all ventured out to see what Sandy had delivered. She'd come fierce and she'd come hard. There were enormous trees mangled and twisted, lying in the streets, across power lines, on rooftops, and across gardens. Power lines were everywhere. We'd been spared the expected rain and for that we were most grateful. Had severe flooding been added to the crazy mix we'd be weeks away from a return to basics instead of days. After a morning coffee and breakfast, we packed up our things and head home to see how we'd fared. As we zigzagged through our once idyllic community, absolute shock and awe struck our faces. Everything looked the same and yet completely and totally different. Our town felt vulnerable, raw, and stunned but also hopeful, motivated, and connected. The invisible lines of community began to glow like energy bands from one to another. People came out of their homes offering whatever they had, food, batteries, chainsaws, gas cans, skills and they started to immediately to try put it back together again.
As we rounded the corner to our street we saw light. Lights inside of our neighbors' homes! Our street had been spared the power outage that has disrupted most of the area. I heard music, tv's blaring, laughter. There were no downed trees, no power lines wiggling on the ground, no one outside. Just blocks away there was an eery calm, a silence, just the occasional hum of a chainsaw or just started generator. People were standing outside, staring in awe, thanking their stars the trees had fallen one way instead of another. Sandy had danced through the fun house in her tight pants all over our township, but on our street, she was still a poor man's Sandra Dee, quiet, wistful, hopeful. A wallflower.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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