"Good night, Irene, good night..."
Irene surprised us. Barely a Category 1 hurricane when she made landfall and merely a tropical storm by the time she arrived in New England, Irene has created all kinds of havoc in the aftermath. Many communities up and down the East Coast are still suffering; flooding has left some towns in Vermont completely cut off from civilization, waiting for roadways to be restored so they can have access to supplies and assistance. That has not been our experience, and for that we are very grateful.
Irene arrived Sunday morning and stayed until dinner, but she was an untidy visitor and we've been cleaning up her messes ever since. She knocked down trees like so many plastic, green army guys lined up on a playroom floor. And as soldiers are wont to do, they took down with them everything in their path, including many of our power lines.
The power went out mid-morning on Sunday and (I believe we are among the lucky ones) went back on sometime after dinner last night. The only casualties are the contents of our freezer and one old tree down the street. I have a new respect for mothers who managed households without electricity or washing machines or modern plumbing. When I was little, I used to wish I could grow up on the set of Little House on the Prairie. It all seemed so romantic. The clothes, the snug cabin, the farm, the one room school house, the tin pail lunch, the fields of grain.... After our brief foray into the world of LH, I'm gladly returning to the 21st century with my little brood.
But there is something I will miss about not having power. It was kind of exciting living moment to moment and imagining creative ways to entertain the kids. We made a lot of our own fun and spent time away from the house on small outings. On the way home from every outing, the girls and I made bets in the car, "Will the lights be on?" Everyone voted, and as we rounded the corner last night and eased the van into our driveway, I'll admit I was both excited and disappointed at the same time--excited that I wouldn't have to change bedtime diapers with a flashlight between my teeth but a little bummed that my evenings wouldn't be filled with candlelight, a glass of wine, and a movie on the portable DVD player. I knew that instead, I would probably feel compelled to pick up the house and then stay up much later than I should catching up on email and news.
It turns out that Irene did similar things for everyone on our street. The neighbors spent more time outside in their yards or chatting in the streets. Everyone cooked dinner on their grills. We stayed outside later so we could enjoy light longer. We made s'mores at our neighbors' house one night, huddled around their fire pit, sharing our Irene stories. We lent a hand with clean up whenever we could--sharing wheelbarrows and rakes and even arms to hold a baby, laughing and chatting across yards while we hauled branches into the woods. We pretended to be put off by Irene, but secretly, I think, we were all enjoying it. We shared something in common. We enjoyed one another's company.
This is how I remember neighbors and neighborhoods growing up. Too often, it seems, we come home from work or errands or whatever and we jet inside--we have bills to pay and dinner to make and shows to watch and email to answer and shopping to do and on and on and on. Most of the time, our neighborhood is pretty quiet. But Irene brought a little more community to our street for a couple of days and with it a reminder of how generous and kind and helpful people can be. So, thank you, Irene. I'm not sad to see you go, but for what it's worth, it's been refreshing.
Irene arrived Sunday morning and stayed until dinner, but she was an untidy visitor and we've been cleaning up her messes ever since. She knocked down trees like so many plastic, green army guys lined up on a playroom floor. And as soldiers are wont to do, they took down with them everything in their path, including many of our power lines.
The power went out mid-morning on Sunday and (I believe we are among the lucky ones) went back on sometime after dinner last night. The only casualties are the contents of our freezer and one old tree down the street. I have a new respect for mothers who managed households without electricity or washing machines or modern plumbing. When I was little, I used to wish I could grow up on the set of Little House on the Prairie. It all seemed so romantic. The clothes, the snug cabin, the farm, the one room school house, the tin pail lunch, the fields of grain.... After our brief foray into the world of LH, I'm gladly returning to the 21st century with my little brood.
But there is something I will miss about not having power. It was kind of exciting living moment to moment and imagining creative ways to entertain the kids. We made a lot of our own fun and spent time away from the house on small outings. On the way home from every outing, the girls and I made bets in the car, "Will the lights be on?" Everyone voted, and as we rounded the corner last night and eased the van into our driveway, I'll admit I was both excited and disappointed at the same time--excited that I wouldn't have to change bedtime diapers with a flashlight between my teeth but a little bummed that my evenings wouldn't be filled with candlelight, a glass of wine, and a movie on the portable DVD player. I knew that instead, I would probably feel compelled to pick up the house and then stay up much later than I should catching up on email and news.
It turns out that Irene did similar things for everyone on our street. The neighbors spent more time outside in their yards or chatting in the streets. Everyone cooked dinner on their grills. We stayed outside later so we could enjoy light longer. We made s'mores at our neighbors' house one night, huddled around their fire pit, sharing our Irene stories. We lent a hand with clean up whenever we could--sharing wheelbarrows and rakes and even arms to hold a baby, laughing and chatting across yards while we hauled branches into the woods. We pretended to be put off by Irene, but secretly, I think, we were all enjoying it. We shared something in common. We enjoyed one another's company.
This is how I remember neighbors and neighborhoods growing up. Too often, it seems, we come home from work or errands or whatever and we jet inside--we have bills to pay and dinner to make and shows to watch and email to answer and shopping to do and on and on and on. Most of the time, our neighborhood is pretty quiet. But Irene brought a little more community to our street for a couple of days and with it a reminder of how generous and kind and helpful people can be. So, thank you, Irene. I'm not sad to see you go, but for what it's worth, it's been refreshing.
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