One thing about a hurricane: It'll go when it wants to

  • By Mike Dewey
  • September 1, 2011
  • 268
                        
SUMMARY: Hurricane Irene knocked down a lot of things, but not Mike Dewey's steadfast belief in a better tomorrow. A lot of times, hurricanes belt the Carolina coast like a clenched fist, thrown with the intent to inflict maximum damage very quickly. They hit and then they run. But Irene wasn't like that. She was more like the in-law you can tolerate for, say, Thanksgiving dinner and then you can't wait until she's gone. You feel good that you did your best, but, truth be told, you'd like to turn cartwheels when you see the taillights receding. But Irene wouldn't leave. She just blew ashore and took her own sweet time heading up North. That was the thing about this storm. The way it just squatted down and refused to move along. It was is if -- and I'm being facetious -- she was listening to the radio and, hearing all those optimistic reports that she'd be long gone by mid-afternoon last Saturday, said to herself, "I kind of like it here ... think I'll stick around for a spell." She was the storm that smiled on our misery, a real sadistic witch. Hurricanes can be predicted, plotted and planned for, but they can't be pushed out; consequently, they can prey on a person's nerves. I've never been prone to cabin fever. Back home, when one of those Alberta Clippers roared down, I didn't stay trapped in the house. No, I'd always venture outside, if only for a quick walk around the block, clearing my head. Last Saturday, you'd have had to hold a .44 Magnum to my skull to get me to venture out ... it was crazy out there. Sixty-foot pine trees uprooted and falling into houses. Century-old oaks toppling down, taking down power lines. Streets flooded. Water hip deep, threatening businesses. Wind tearing off roofs. People, staring at the skies, knowing it was going to be a long siege. And, of course, no electricity. When I'm way older and I look back on Irene, that's going to be what I remember best: the utter reliance on something that was simply unavailable. You might smile when I tell you how often my wife or I would walk into a room and, by rote, flip on a light switch that had as much chance of working as Jim Tressel has of coaching Ohio State. The power went out at around 4 in the morning on Saturday. It finally came back on around 1:30 on Tuesday afternoon. That's 85 and a half hours. One of the most inconvenient things about hurricanes -- aside from their destructiveness and tendency to kill people -- is that they strike at the height of summer. The hot and humid season. And down South, I can assure you, it's hot and humid in late August. But what can you do? That's right. You deal with it. Here's what got us through the storm: * A transistor radio * A charcoal grill * A flashlight * And each other That's it. That's the list. Very low-tech, very old-school, very traditional and, well, very effective. We rode out the hurricane together, making sure we maintained not only a sense of security, but a sense of humor. We're Northerners, Ohioans, and laughing in the face of calamity comes as naturally as picking sweet corn and listening to the Indians on the radio. "Can't last much longer than, what, a week?" I said as the rain blew sideways and the trees bent like actors taking a curtain call. "No," my wife said, echoing one of my favorite get-out-of-trouble lines, "more than that." So I started up the charcoal and marinated the chicken and listened to the radio, folks calling in from all over the East, sharing stories of loss and hope. No, we didn't have YouTube or Twitter or FaceBook ... those modern conveniences were utterly useless. What we did have was a transistor radio, no bigger than a meatloaf and just as filling. "I think," my wife said as we savored our barbequed chicken and potato salad, "this is the best meal you've ever made," "Thanks," I said. And there was no room for any other words. The next three days passed by in a blur of chainsaws and the drone of generators as the neighbors with more assets than we made life normal, sort of. We simply raked our debris -- three or four hundred pounds of it -- and gathered it into a great pile in the back yard. I made arrangements with our landlord to haul it away. Took a few days, but it got done. Night fell very quickly those nights and personal hygiene was as iffy as Notre Dame's chances for a perfect season, but we pressed on. What choice was there? And that's the whole thing, the message in the storm. Irene may have been strong, but we were stronger. Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560.


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