Ode To Sandy
Posted: November 2, 2012
Rural Pen
Monday. The day we in the working world love to hate. This one turned into a very different Monday, a sort of suspended day.
My TV was on for most of the morning, then at noon and then for the evening news. This alone set the day apart from any other, as my television is normally a neglected device at my house.
We watched for all the news of Hurricane Sandy. Not so much for how it would affect us, which looked to be less than this summer’s derecho, but out of concern for family and friends in New York City and on Long Island.
Here’s a poem I scribbled while waiting for Sandy:
We’ve heard about you,
all of your East Coast appearances —
West Palm Beach, Charleston, Wilmington —
You’ve gone big time and my, you do get around;
you swoop in, swirl about, dazzle the town and move on;
your fatal smothering juiciness
makes you a real homewrecker.
Who would have thought such a bland name — Sandy —
could bring so much calamity? Not like
Cassandra, a femme fatale,
or Sandra, a more formal figure.
But we, we have steeled ourselves against your wiles —
we have taken in the vulnerable,
fortified our homes and businesses,
readied our minds and hearts
for your arrival. You,
your tempestuous drama
your turbulent moods,
your transitory harms
will come
and go.
The husband and I had battened down the hatches over the weekend. We put away everything outdoors that could be damaged, shut the storm windows on the house and moved my car out from under the leaning tree that looks like it’s going to fall over at the slightest breeze. I filled a few water jugs. Since we have a gas stove, we can always cook and boil water.
With a whole day off, I decided to finish the cleaning I’d neglected over the weekend. My domestic self rose to the surface. I vacuumed behind the couch. I made sweet potato soup and tomato sauce. I started a sewing project. I even ironed!
As I putted around, listening to my Mumford & Sons Pandora station, I began to feel awfully nostalgic. It plays all new music, yet it opened a place in me.
I missed my parents, who always took such good care of me during hurricanes on Long Island. I missed my kids as children and the storms we weathered in the hollow.
As the day wore on and Sandy hit the Jersey shore, it was clear the dire predictions were not exaggerated. Sandy’s strength, as indicated by barometric pressure just before landfall, set a record.
Friends and family on Long Island began — by Facebook updates sent by cellphone — to report their power outages and to post photos of wind and water damage. The waterfronts in the towns where I grew up — Bayport, Blue Point, Patchogue — were flooded hours before the storm hit.
The fire that destroyed 80 homes in Queens, the wipeout of hundreds of homes and businesses on the Jersey Shore and the flooding of New York City’s subway system — these are the images we saw when we awoke on Tuesday morning.
Here in the Valley, nothing. It felt strange to get up and go to work on Tuesday, like it was a normal thing to do, like nothing had happened.
And my homemaking self went back underground.
My TV was on for most of the morning, then at noon and then for the evening news. This alone set the day apart from any other, as my television is normally a neglected device at my house.
We watched for all the news of Hurricane Sandy. Not so much for how it would affect us, which looked to be less than this summer’s derecho, but out of concern for family and friends in New York City and on Long Island.
Here’s a poem I scribbled while waiting for Sandy:
We’ve heard about you,
all of your East Coast appearances —
West Palm Beach, Charleston, Wilmington —
You’ve gone big time and my, you do get around;
you swoop in, swirl about, dazzle the town and move on;
your fatal smothering juiciness
makes you a real homewrecker.
Who would have thought such a bland name — Sandy —
could bring so much calamity? Not like
Cassandra, a femme fatale,
or Sandra, a more formal figure.
But we, we have steeled ourselves against your wiles —
we have taken in the vulnerable,
fortified our homes and businesses,
readied our minds and hearts
for your arrival. You,
your tempestuous drama
your turbulent moods,
your transitory harms
will come
and go.
The husband and I had battened down the hatches over the weekend. We put away everything outdoors that could be damaged, shut the storm windows on the house and moved my car out from under the leaning tree that looks like it’s going to fall over at the slightest breeze. I filled a few water jugs. Since we have a gas stove, we can always cook and boil water.
With a whole day off, I decided to finish the cleaning I’d neglected over the weekend. My domestic self rose to the surface. I vacuumed behind the couch. I made sweet potato soup and tomato sauce. I started a sewing project. I even ironed!
As I putted around, listening to my Mumford & Sons Pandora station, I began to feel awfully nostalgic. It plays all new music, yet it opened a place in me.
I missed my parents, who always took such good care of me during hurricanes on Long Island. I missed my kids as children and the storms we weathered in the hollow.
As the day wore on and Sandy hit the Jersey shore, it was clear the dire predictions were not exaggerated. Sandy’s strength, as indicated by barometric pressure just before landfall, set a record.
Friends and family on Long Island began — by Facebook updates sent by cellphone — to report their power outages and to post photos of wind and water damage. The waterfronts in the towns where I grew up — Bayport, Blue Point, Patchogue — were flooded hours before the storm hit.
The fire that destroyed 80 homes in Queens, the wipeout of hundreds of homes and businesses on the Jersey Shore and the flooding of New York City’s subway system — these are the images we saw when we awoke on Tuesday morning.
Here in the Valley, nothing. It felt strange to get up and go to work on Tuesday, like it was a normal thing to do, like nothing had happened.
And my homemaking self went back underground.
Luanne Austin lives in Mount Sidney. Contact her at RuralPen@aol.com, www.facebook.com/rural pen or care of the DN-R.