We spent the weekend doing the “battening” thing. We have no hatches, per se, but we have the usual yard stuff that needed to be secured, including the little trailer we bought this summer for the goats.
The jack o’ lanterns faced to the south, with grim determination.
But I couldn’t let them make that sacrifice, so I moved them to a safer place, hoping that they’ll survive until their holiday in two days.
We live on high ground and don’t worry much about flooding, but we barricaded the top of the driveway to try to prevent the river that will undoubtedly flow from the hill across the street from carving a grand canyon into what’s left of our gravel.
Yesterday evening’s sky was dappled and beautiful. Though Hurricane Sandy was still hundreds of miles away, her long fingers were stirring our upper atmosphere, speckling the sky with puffy clouds in geometric patterns.
Then the sun went down and the moon rose through the clouds in blue, then grey, then black.
I went to bed. I heard a big wind whistle around the house and the Maine buoy wind chime in the apple tree clanged loudly for a few seconds. It wasn’t Sandy’s arrival. It was just her messenger: I’m on my way. See you soon.
This morning, the sky is a solid fabric of felted grey.
Our biggest worry here is losing power for awhile, which, in the scheme of things isn’t such a big deal. We’ve got batteries, candles, water, a pantry full of snacks, two wood stoves and a lot of firewood. We’ve got each other, books, board games, and, usually, a sense of humor.
One thing we don’t have is a World Series win for the Detroit Tigers. I don’t give a whit about baseball, but this year, couldn’t they have just won? It mattered to people I love.
Well. We can’t have everything.
Even though we feel pretty safe here, we are worried for the people and farms by the rivers and coasts. As far away as we all might be from each other, a storm this size seems to gather us up into one, sensitive web, where we feel the vibrations of blizzards in the Appalachians, storm surges in Manhattan, and wicked winds in Boston. We’re thinking of you, and hoping you stay safe.
And, as big as Sandy’s reach is, her blustery storminess pales in comparison to the storm in our hearts right now because someone we dearly love is in the hospital.
So, I’m sitting here, waiting. For rain, for wind, for flickering lights, for news from afar.
And awfully glad to have Ella for company.