That's Great, It Starts With An Earthquake....

August 23, 2011 - the day after our 19th Wedding Anniversary - an earthquake of 5.8 magnitude hit the east coast at 1:51 p.m., centered in Virginia.  To be honest, I didn't feel it - we were in the car coming home from the thrift store at the time.  I had a premonition about it, though, which I promptly dismissed as one of those fleeting "in one ear, out the other" thoughts.  I should have paid attention.

The next day, the media started making noise about a Hurricane Irene,  which looked to be making a path up the east coast, with a bee-line for New York and New England.  This warning I did not dismiss; we were overdue for a hit and if I had had any doubts, the sky on the morning of August 27th was a brilliant illustration of "red sky at morning; sailor take warning".

We battened down our hatches, purchased the requisite milk and bread, threw in some ice and beer for good measure, and hunkered down.  Being a household with regular loss of electricity, we are somewhat better prepared than our less rural neighbors, with lanterns, oil lamps, flashlights, camp stoves and the MUCH coveted "D" cell batteries.

A wedding had been planned for Saturday night at the Bellamy-Ferriday House, which I had volunteered to work, leading guests on a house tour during cocktail hour.  Friday saw the arrival of three massive tents - one for the wedding, one for the dinner and one for the dance floor and band.  The bridal party was busy shuttling boxes of booze to the barn for storage and the caterer arrived with the tablecloths, dinnerware and champagne flutes.

Saturday was my day to volunteer at the Red Barn Thrift store; Steve made a wonderful "Hurricane Blow Out Sale" sale sign to display, and I set up a special "Hurricane Helpers" shelf at the store, with every candle, candle holder and oil lamp we owned.  We nearly sold out of candles.

The rain was fitful all day long, coming in violent downbursts then tapering off and repeating.  The parking lot of LaBonne's grocery store was packed consistently throughout the morning and afternoon but people were good-natured and many were excited about the impending storm.  Around 2:00 p.m., I got a call from my supervisor at Bellamy-Ferriday, informing me that the bride had thought the better of it and was moving her ceremonies to a local hotel.  I'm sure the fact the wooden dance floor was under a foot of water might have helped sway her decision!

FaceBook was all aTwitter with emotions ranging from way too blasé to end times prophecy spouters. As Saturday evening wore on, the rain began in earnest and the winds picked up slightly.  As midnight approached, I decided to get a little bit of shut-eye and packed it in.

The kitties, of course, remained complacent throughout the ordeal.

Morning came too quickly; dawn came not at all as sheets of rain obscured the visibility and the wind was waxing fierce, causing a steady thudding of dead branches parting company with the oak trees.  The lights flickered and failed and came back on regularly, causing flashing time clocks all over the house.  Every time we lost power momentarily, our umbilical cord to the world failed, and rebooted, and then failed again.  The worst of the storm was roughly from sunrise until noon; six hours of pounding rain and whipping winds and fear for the oak trees in the yard.

Around 2:00, neighbors started venturing out to survey the damage in the 'hood.  Surprisingly light, all things considered, with branches and leaves littering the yards and roads but no trees down in our immediate area.  Ellen and I decided that we should venture out for a more thorough inspection, and we packed Michael, Mary-Grace and goldfish in her Explorer and took a spin around the Lake Winnemaug Beach, Logue Farms, Route 6 in Woodbury, up through Middlebury and the other side of our lake in Watertown, and home again.

Post hurricane grazing - the bulls are fine!

Tree snapped off about 10' up and taking down the power lines on Hamilton Avenue.

Traveling companion, Miss Mary Grace.  You can NOT resist the cuteness, trust me!

All in all, while we in our little corner of Watertown escaped virtually unscathed, the surrounding communities and counties were not as fortunate.  Bethlehem, Woodbury and Middlebury suffered a total loss of electricity.  New London county at nearly 100% outage for all their towns.  Fairfield County was hit hard, and my old home town of Fairfield lost several beach houses and flooded up Reef Road all the way up to the Transfer Station, a good 1/2 mile inland.  As the storm surged, every road south of Old Field Road in the beach area was evacuated.  Rhode Island and the Cape didn't bear the brunt but Vermont and upstate New York were hammered, as evidenced by heartbreaking YouTube videos of historic bridges being swept away by raging rivers.

As I write this three days after the storm, school has been canceled yet again for Watertown, and in Bethlehem and Woodbury, they've delayed the start of school until after Labor Day - just like the 'good old days'.  There are still over 400,000 households without power in our state, and over 2 million in New England.

And Hurricane Katia is making her way toward the Bahamas.

The Inevitable Evolution of the Curmudgeon

The word "curmudgeon" brings to mind - at least, to MY mind - the stereotypical New England swamp Yankee...see below:

These were the dudes who would chase you off their property with a shotgun, if they had one, or a mangy old mutt if they didn't.  Raised fists and threats of bodily harm were common, as were the swear words.  Should you have the extreme bad luck to lose your kickball over their fence, you either kissed it goodbye or drew straws to see who would attempt to retrieve it.  The curmudgeon came in both sexes, of course - it was both frightening and entertaining to be threatened with death from a little old lady spouting epithets in Italian or Czechoslovakian or French.

Every neighborhood had one, or two, or seven, so there was no dearth of curmudgeonliness in Fairfield, and we knew precisely which houses to beware of and avoid.  We thought they were a million years old; they likely ranged in age from 50s to their 90s (Old Man Kratky lived to 99!) and as I am now looking the big 5-0 right in the eye, come January, I have gained a certain sympathy for and appreciation of curmudgeons.  I found this whilst looking for a proper definition:

 "A curmudgeon's reputation for malevolence is undeserved. They're neither warped nor evil at heart. They don't hate mankind, just mankind's absurdities. They're just as sensitive and soft-hearted as the next guy, but they hide their vulnerability beneath a crust of misanthropy. They ease the pain by turning hurt into humor.  . . . . .   They attack maudlinism because it devalues genuine sentiment.   . . . . .   Nature, having failed to equip them with a servicable denial mechanism, has endowed them with astute perception and sly wit.
      Curmudgeons are mockers and debunkers whose bitterness is a symptom rather than a disease. They can't compromise their standards and can't manage the suspension of disbelief necessary for feigned cheerfulness. Their awareness is a curse.
      Perhaps curmudgeons have gotten a bad rap in the same way that the messenger is blamed for the message: They have the temerity to comment on the human condition without apology. They not only refuse to applaud mediocrity, they howl it down with morose glee. Their versions of the truth unsettle us, and we hold it against them, even though they soften it with humor."

- JON WINOKUR

OK, they don't always "soften it with humor" - few in my experience did, at any rate.  But the more I see of the human condition, the more curmudgeonly I am becoming myself.  A prime example of a current curmudgeon would be the great comedian and social commentarist (that's my word) Jon Stewart.  I guess, if you subscribe to their hate-filled venom, Ann Coulter/Bill O'Reilly/Rush Limbaugh would fall under the same category.  Personally, I think they're all idiots but that's just me.  And a couple million other people whose heads are screwed on straight.

So when we curse that distracted driver whose actions are threatening life and limb, or ridicule the Tea Party candidates' claims of 'returning America to its roots', or repost the article in the New York Times which provides confirmation of what we've suspected to be true all along, we are honoring and channelling our inner curmudgeons.

More curmudgeonliness, please!

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!"

High School.  September 1976.  I vividly remember sitting in the auditorium at Roger Ludlowe high school, under the bright lights, surrounded by the rest of the 500+ member freshman class, wondering what the hell I was doing there.  A shock to the system - from around 30 well-known classmates, to this swarming, writhing mass of adolescent humanity, over 500 strong,  that represented the ass-end of the baby boomer generation.  From the cloistered, sheltered halls of Catholic school to this sprawling, confusing, three story institution.  I had never operated nor used a locker, a cafeteria or needed to change clothes for gym class.  I had never needed to find different classrooms for each subject, carry my books with me or figure out how to get to room 310 from home room 123.  I had never felt so much the 'fish out of water'.

"What I Am To Be, I Am Now Becoming."

That was emblazoned in two foot high letters on a banner at the entrance to the school's main office.  I'm not sure if that was a threat or a cheery promise, as if you were being sent to the Principal's office, you were in BIG trouble, bucko!  The school was divided into three 'houses':  Webster House, Silliman House and Haynes House.  My house was Webster and was in the newest wing of the building; the basement hallways had bright yellow lockers but the interior position of the odd numbered rooms resulted in no windows, which in turn resulted in classrooms that were a bit gloomy.

Mrs. Catherine ("Call Me Ma") Dillingham was my homeroom teacher.  She was one of those no-nonsense teachers but she had a great sense of humor; you could joke with her so long as you respected her authority, which we all did.  I was lumped with all the other "end of the alphabet" kids; with surnames beginning from "S" to "Z", we were the kids who were used to being called last in attendance checks, lining up last in those alphabetical order line-ups, and generally getting the shaft in anything done alphabetically.

Mr. Riley's English class was a bad fit for me, as I skewed the grading curve.  Had I had the proper guidance, I would have likely been placed in an honors class, but lacking same, I opted for what I considered the "easiest" English, where little would be expected of me.  I got that right!

Ms. Machunk's "Math 101" was also a revelation - honestly, could my classmates not add and subtract?  The answer was 'yes' - it was a fun review, though, as she was a novice teacher who thought to put our learning to use by having field trips to Circle Lanes (bowling alley) and the Par 3 (golf course).  She also taught "Health" class - it was the first time I heard the word "penis" spoken aloud.

"Justice in America" was memorable for me - I remember watching a prison movie ("Glass Houses" with a young Alan Alda) and writing a "Modest Proposal" with Mr. Brennan.  I may have frightened him a little bit with my essay on reinstituting slavery; I was a very tongue-in-cheek writer and may just have come off as a bit too realistic for him.  It was not slavery based on race for 1976 - it was solely based on a socio-economic factors.  Mr. Brennan's class was a revelation to me - he actually encouraged discussion and debate and his questions to us were truly thought-provoking.

Gym class...was a foreign concept.  In all my years at St. Thomas, we had precisely one gym teacher, whose fitness programs consisted of games of supervised dodgeball, kickball and other 'ball' games.  I think I may have taken golf or archery; not a stand-out memory.

"Earth Science" with Mr. Dillon was a wonderful class...he showed lots of film strips and movies and we didn't need to dissect anything, which was a relief.

Two semesters of "Home Ec", forced upon me by my mother, were supposed to help us learn cooking basics and sewing basics.  "Ma" Phelps was a terrific teacher and I still use the white sauce recipe as a base for virtually every chicken soup dish but Mrs. Barilla...let's just say I may have been the bane of her existence that year.  I understood the concept of sewing but frequently sewed the arms of my garment in upside-down or inside out.  I was dyslexic when it came to sewing and she knew it.

I remember making decent grades as a Freshman - maybe made the honor roll once or twice - but I was intent on flying under the radar by being not too good a student, nor too in need of remedial services.  If there had been awards for being totally invisible, I would have won those easily.

The Tale of the Abandoned Blog

Oh, dear.  I so intended to keep up this blog, but life has a funny way of taking us away from that which we want to do whilst we attend to that which we must do.  And thus it is August 4th; six months and three days since my last entry.  In my defense, I had the dickens of a time getting back here as I switched browsers from the ever buggy Firefox to the more stable Safari.

So let's just time-warp and fast forward through those six months and begin anew, shall we?

I'm still unpacking, sorting laundry and editing pictures from our Naushon 2011 vacation with the Control Group.  The week went distressingly fast; I've discovered that as I get older I seem to be picking up velocity along with the obligatory wrinkles.

Calf Pasture House, as seen from my canoe on Lackey's Bay.

This being our 21st year together, we've picked up a few pointers along the way.

#1.  Bring everything you think you will need, and then some, with you.  Nobody wants to go off-island to have to purchase some forgotten ingredient or necessity in Woods Hole, or worse yet, Falmouth.

#2.  The pick-up trucks hauling our food, equipment and luggage should pull up to the porch area facing Lackey's Bay, and not the 'back' of the house facing the tennis courts.  In this manner, knees are preserved with the relative paucity of steps required to move all the crap into the house.  Also, it's less sweaty.

#3.  Beds should be made as soon as the perishables and food items have been put away.  You will not have the energy to make your bed after "First Night Syndrome".  You will be lucky to even find your bed after "First Night Syndrome".

#4.  All activities except for the above shall be suspended until the mandatory "First Jump" into Lackey's Bay.  No exceptions.

From Left:  Alys, Linna, Kate, Kirsten, Devon

Settling in to "Island Mode" seems to take no time at all now.  Gone is the full day wasted as we try to adjust to having nothing in particular to do and all day to do it.  Everything can not be accomplished in one day, either - so relax, breathe in that wonderfully fresh, marginally salty sea air and pour yourself an icy cold drink as you meander out onto the porch to park your older-but-wiser buttocks on the sofa or chair or hammock, and enjoy the moment.  Welcome home.