The Prelude
I christened it The Stranger, after Albert Camus' existential novel of the same name. The words stranger and novel came together in this disaster. This wasn't just any old hurricane; this was something not seen here for... well, never. A non-conforming hurricane. Hard to predict, hard to understand, hard to know what to do with. And, like Camus' stranger, Marius, it ended up killing people. It also went on to slaughter the innocents while it raped and ravaged an environment. It out-Shermaned Tecumseh Sherman as he rampaged through Atlanta.
This stranger began his journey inland, southwest of us tracked by weather stations all the way. It hit this area precisely on time, like a new college grad showing up for his first job interview; only this applicant had mayhem on his mind.
For two days straight, NOAA radio (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration's National Weather Service) had provided shrill, sleep-obliterating alarms and continuously updated advisories as extreme weather patterns (barometric and temperature fluctuations, rapidly moving weather cells, wind bursts, thunder and lightning storms) increased in number and menace potential. NOAA's computerized voices (they all sound like Stephen Hawking after a while - even the female voice simulations) would broadcast alarming and precise geographic locations and arrival time parameters of these approaching storms in terms of counties and cities in their paths.
On Friday afternoon, May 8th, 2009, we were directly in the path of one really large, really dangerous storm cell.
NOAA had already issued 6 alerts and touted these onrushing thunder and sheet lighting shows as extreme, even dangerous; but we'd heard such talk before. We'd done this drill. So my wife Rachel and I were attentive but not really moved to shift into DEFCON mode; maybe even a little blasé. Yeah, I think we were blasé since we brought a bottle of wine and long stem glasses with us to the garden floor where we intended to wait out this latest "weather event."
Blasé retreated and bolted from DEFCON 5 to DEFCON 2, however, when the clouds started racing, the rain started falling, the wind started escalating, the cable TV signal went phfft, the outdoor antenna went to snow, the internet, nailed to local Weather Underground, faded to black and NOAA went off the air right after it mentioned something about tornados.
Finally, when all power to the house fled, we knew we were in for a long afternoon, one that eventually dragged on for a week plus. Very soon we would be transformed into time travelers, living somewhere between cave dwellers and Westward pioneers.
The Storm
There we sat on the floor, on the garden level (some call it a basement--the hell with them!), looking out through the double glass doors that opened onto the patio which overlooked the rolling hills and fields in front of us. Survival kits and supplies and our magnum of wine were at the ready, animals were in their separate rooms (they just don't play well together, especially in times of severe weather), and we waited. We felt the temperature start to drop.
The wait wasn't long. Around 1 PM, as predicted, we saw the leafy branches of distant trees start to sway and then thrash back and forth. We saw the rain begin to sweep across the fields. Moments later the wind began its relentless assault on our house, flinging and plastering what I thought were just some leaves blown from branches. throwing off sounds of imminent destruction; Monumental sounds. No, not like the vaunted freight train imitations of tornados, but a haunting, moaning rendition of some giant, wounded wolf, come a huffing and a puffing.
We put down the wine and clutched each other's hand. Yes, we were warned. But NO VOICE, computerized or otherwise, had predicted a hurricane and NO ONE had predicted sustained winds of 60-80 mph and gusts up to 105 MPH! Yet, here we were.
We watched the leaf-plastered, double doors to the patio, being pushed and strained to their limits, like something out of a cheesy Robert Englund, haunted house horror flick, so we pulled back as far as we could against the poured cement wall, placing us about 20 feet from where we expected the doors might explode into the room.
The rain transformed from particles to waves washing against the house, waves from some errant great lake or roiled ocean. It joined the wind in the destructive forward thrust while the nonstop blinding and deafening thunder and sheet lightning set the weather assault's pace and tenor.
At first the din, the synergistic composition of sound and visuals arrayed before us was merely disconcerting and curious; but as the groans and moans got louder, as the doors shook and pushed inward, curiosity turned to cold sweat and fear.
The storm sounds conjured images of our house being brought to its knees and then to a total collapse around us in some high, operatic moment of sheer, awesome power and destruction. Just barely above the din we could hear the sounds of acoustically unplaceable things falling, of unknown thuds and tearings, unnatural groans then the rattles then thumps and the unholy alliance of primordially bright lightning and ferocious thunder.
Behind closed doors the cat started to murmur and the dog started to restlessly roam the room, nails clicking on laminate floors, adding to the sounds of our tribal anxiety. We braced for utter devastation, our eyes glued to the double doors and their window to what lay ahead.
Then suddenly, it stopped! The doors pulled back from their tortured bulge inward and seemed to cease a shivering I once believed doors incapable of.
No. Check that. That's not accurate. Things didn't abruptly stop; they faded, quickly, like footsteps of a mugger who has just knocked you down, rifled your pockets, then turned and just walked unhurriedly down the block, heels clacking on wet surfaces, afraid of nothing, certainly not you, you cowering on the ground, just thankful you're still alive.
There was growing quiet. Everyone and ever thing was quiet Outside the rain trailed off, then stopped. The wind evaporated. The lightning switched off and the thunder rolled off into the distance toward other voices, other rooms with other huddled clusters hoping to safely ride it out the stranger's visit.
Cautiously, furtively, we opened the double doors and peeked out. The clouds, moments earlier thick and gray, had rapidly thinned and betrayed translucence, while the sun started staking its claim for dominance. The smell of wet flora raced up our nostrils and the sounds of birds and frogs timidly began to signal that the storm was over and it was safe to come out. Their rejoice is always so quick, so trusting.
It suddenly dawned upon me that the leaves pasted to the glass doors had not been torn from branches and hurled through the air; they had literally been shredded, like a giant, whirling scythe had taken after them, hacking them to pieces. It had left behind a slaw of shredded leaves, a storm pesto, clinging to our glass doors, against house sidings windows and screens. I looked up and the trees were wearing shreds of themselves and reaching out with branches twisted almost into knots. If trees felt pain, this would be the moment.
There was more of nature's ruthlessness to be seen as I looked across the expanse of grass on our back acreage. the grass was not torn from the ground but severed, like heads from bodies or bent over as if awaiting execution. Clearly a rampage had occurred.
