Ornoth

If there’s one thing my new job has been bad for, it’s my blogging. My two-month absence has not been due to lack of material (quite the reverse), but from lack of time and energy. But now that finally I have a long weekend largely to myself, allow me to correct that.

I had a fair amount of last weekend to myself, as well, but I was busy paying attention to the weather. You see, Hurricane Irene landed in NYC and made a tour of New England.

Of course, the local media went gaga. This time of year, weathermen get irrationally preoccupied with the tropics, bringing us updates every half hour about waves leaving Africa which have an infinitesimal chance of impacting us, and then only after taking two or three weeks to cross the Atlantic and mosey northward.

But I must say that once this hurricane was imminent, I appreciated the live coverage that was provided, and the accuracy of the forecast. We’ve come a long way from the days when ships at sea would encounter storms that arrived unannounced.

Despite that, people still take any weather event as an opportunity to bitch about weathermen. The storm’s winds, which gusted to 84 mph locally, left 7 million buildings without power. Torrential rains caused several rivers to set new records for highest flood waters, destroying many homes and bridges. Hundreds of roads (especially in Vermont) were closed due to washouts or fallen trees. Fifty-five people were killed. And yet despite all this, there’s been no shortage of self-centered morons who accuse their weathermen of alarmist reporting.

For me, I’d say this was the first hurricane I’ve experienced that actually verified, although damage here was minimal. As the wind picked up, the plastic covers on the dumpsters behind our building slammed open and closed all day long. A large temporary screen put up against the building next door, whose brickwork is being re-pointed, was partially ripped off and had to be removed by workmen during the storm.

The wind tore down the banner for the Copley Society of Art, across Newbury Street, blew a big tarp out of a pickup truck, and rolled a full bag of garbage down the sidewalk. My next-door neighbor was dumb enough to go away and leave their window open, and the wind tore the screen completely open.

On the positive side, I never lost power. Service in downtown is well protected and underground, so we don’t have those issues.

Like the aftermath of most tropical storms, as soon as it left we had stunningly beautiful weather. The next day was Monday; I biked to work and saw a lot of damage firsthand. Trees of all sizes were down, many taking power lines with them. I encountered closed roads and nonfunctional traffic signals and debris everywhere. But at least the floodwaters that had closed several streets and highways had receded by then.

Prior to this, my experience with hurricanes had been underwhelming. Three years ago, my buddy Jay and I sat out what was left of Hurricane Hanna in a New Bedford flophouse, then left early in the morning to do a debris-strewn century ride.

Twenty years ago, two weeks after my wife left me, I took a basketball outside and shot hoops in my apartment complex’s parking lot until I was exhausted during Hurricane Bob. That was only six years after another hurricane caused me to meet my future in-laws for the first time. I rode out Gloria at the New York City subway stop (Union Square?) my future wife and I had agreed to meet at. When she never showed, I went to her house and knocked on the door, only to learn from her parents that she had gone out to find me only once the storm had subsided.

Neither of those storms impressed me, nor did the one hurricane I remember from the mid-1970s. I was at a YMCA camp, and we were evacuated to one of the counselors’ homes. That was probably either Agnes or Belle.

That disregard is probably why I sent a curt response to my mother when she emailed me about taking precautions before Irene hit. I replied that I was probably in more danger from the dead bat they recently found a block from my condo that had tested positive for rabies.

One reason I’m blase about hurricanes is because I was born in the fishing port of Gloucester right at the height of a hurricane: Hurricane Ginny, which was one of those very rare late-season hurricanes that dumped a foot and a half of snow up in Maine.

While riding out Irene in my condo won’t be my most cherished hurricane memory, I don’t mind. Although I really enjoy dramatic weather, this was finally a storm strong enough that I didn’t really care to be out in it.

No promises about next time, though!