The Weather Gods

photo from wikipedia

For over 24 hours now I’ve been warned to prepare  - or else - for the brunt of a perfect storm that has been forming just off the coast of New Jersey. Perfect in the eyes of Aeolus, maybe, the Greek myth blusterer credited with handing a tightly sealed sack full of winds over to Odysseus. With the winds bagged, the seas stilled, allowing the Greek hero to continue his ten-year journey home to wife and son after the Trojan War.

 If only Aeolus could keep the fury of this week’s “perfect” alignment of hurricane and northeaster under wraps. Mortal meteorologists lack the Greek God’s sacking powers. Instead, today’s forecasters have been relying on “ spaghetti models” (a new term for me - not to be confused with a Spaghetti Westerns) in an effort to anticipate Hurricane Sandy's strength and whereabouts. These models chart intertwined webs of all possible storm scenario.

The spaghetti model for Hurricane Sandy looked a lot like  a Christmas ornament my son made from cooked pasta noodles in nursery school.Based on the twists and turns of the loopy model, Connecticut Governor  Dannel Malloy has called  Hurricane Sandy “the most catastrophic event any of us have seen in our lifetimes” and “the largest threat to human life this state has ever experienced.”

By now, one would have to be a fool not to have evacuated coastal residences, as we wait for the worst of the storm to blow in and out through the night. Governor Malloy is no God of the Winds; he can’t quell the storm.

I hope in the morning we can call him the God of Hyperbole.

Storm Warnings

photo from ABC
 

Mother Nature seems to have developed a grudge against my birthday.

Last year, storm Alfred blew in a day or two after my birthday, downing tree limbs and power lines through most of the state. We remained powerless for over a week. Even Halloween had to be cancelled!

Friday, as I turned another year older, I was greeted by continual warnings on TV to prepare for the worst – three days before the worst would materialize. Hurricane Sandy was heading toward New England.

I agree forewarned is forearmed, but I could have done without the melodramatic station promotions repeated after each storm update.  One of the station's ads featured music that reminded me of the haunting theme to The High and the Mighty, an iconic disaster film of the Fifties.  As the tension in the music built, the local meteorologist announced , “We stayed with you during tropical storm Irene.  We’ll stay with you through this one.” Then, this morning, as the hurricane moved half way up the coast, a morning anchor on the Today Show point-blankly told Al Roker, “I’m really scared.” Not my idea of helpful storm reporting.

Yet, I do admit, once again I find myself  at the mercy of Mother Nature and, once again, I am at a loss to know what to wish for.  If I wish  for Sandy to stay away from me, do I inadvertently wish for her to more  greatly impact my  NJ and NY relatives and friends? That’s not what I want.

So what do I want?

I want to be forewarned but not terror- stricken, prepared but not panicked. Reasonable warnings got me  to clear my porch and fill  my gas tank. Thanks to early warnings I’ve got blocks of ice in the freezer and lots of water.

I don’t like storm warnings taking control of my day, but I heed them. If the governor's stark warning directed me to evacuate - I would. But please, just tell me what to do and spare me the melodrama.
 
Here are some sensible measures to get us all through the storm.

Frankenstorm: How to Prepare for a Hurricane

Mother Nature At It Again




Charles Richter developed

the scales that

measures earthquake

intensities

Last Tuesday night I pedaled away on my exercise bike as I watched a one-day-old broadcast of The Daily Show. Halfway through the show I felt the floor beneath me vibrate. At the same time, the bookcase beside me shook. I heard slight thumping.

Thinking back, I’m stunned by how many thoughts a mind can harbor, at once. As the earth moved that night I thought, in no particular order

a.   What’s the dog doing’? (Because the thumping sounded a little like the repeated rhythm Winnie sometimes pounds out with her hind leg)

b.    Was my furnace acting up – as in red alert acting up?

c.      Why would someone be using a jackhammer in my backyard at 7:15?

During that sweep of thought, I got off the bike. Ventured downstairs to the basement where the furnace sat, silent. Then I headed back upstairs, out onto the porch and yard, where no jack hammerer  appeared.

Still wondering (as in, with great relief, wondering-in-place), the single pulse of the phone in my pocket drew my attention. Turned out to be an alert for a prescription ready at CVS.

I went to the phone’s FACEBOOK newsfeed.

My house just shook…?????

Did we just have an earthquake?

So that’s what that was! Soon a Facebook status linked to a CNN report about a 4.0 temblor that hit around 7:12 p.m. Its epicenter was about 20 miles west of Portland, Maine. That’s just over 150 miles from me and my exercise bike. According to later reports the Maine earthquake shook buildings and rattled dishes, but as far as I know, caused no injuries or serious damage.

My daughter, who lives an hour closer to Maine, didn’t feel a thing. Her friend, who lives 50 miles farther away from Portland than I do, clearly felt the tremors. She was settled into her third floor apartment, I had been pedaling on my second floor, and my daughter had been in her first floor living room. I wonder if our flights made a difference.

Mother Nature let us off easy this time - not like just a year ago when a freak October snowstorm became just heavy enough to turn my lights out – along with most Connecticut households’  -- for almost a week! It even cancelled Halloween.

Tuesday evening's tremor didn't amount to much. Ten to fifteen thousand earthquakes of this intensity occur every year. Why, greater rumbling was felt across the nation, just hours later - during the second televised presidential debate.

 

A Cousin Encounter of Another Kind (The End)

 Bensonhurst housefront - similar to where I grew up

Did I want to drive by the Brooklyn house I grew up in?

You bet I did!

In less than five minutes my cousin drove north (I think) up Bay Ridge Parkway onto 18^th Avenue, and then 78^th Street, towards the El and New Utrecht High.  

I sensed a familiarity on the street I hadn’t been on for close to forty years.  About two-thirds of the way down, I recognized four wide cement steps that led to a doorway I’d crossed in and out of - daily - as a kid. There'd be no crossing through it today. The four-family house had been left to another cousin, even longer out of touch, who’d sold the property some time ago.

My cousin double-parked for a minute or two. Transfixed by the landmark, I thought of the many  times I had aimed a pink rubber ball at those steps way back when, my young friends positioned on the sidewalk ,readied for a catch. If one nabbed the rebound on the fly, I was out. Otherwise, every bounce earned me a base in our game of stoop ball. Baseball without a bat - or field. Just cement steps and sidewalk.

We drove on. 

Now as I think back, I realize my aunt, cousins, and I played our own game of street ball that day - on a makeshift field of memory.  First base in a Brooklyn bakery, we were just warming up as we  shared photos of the newest born  - my Patrick, their Anthony - on our Smart Phone apps. Approaching second, around Rosanne's kitchen table, I learned of my Uncle's miraculous recovery from a stroke ten years earlier and his tragic battle with cancer, only a year after that. By early evening we rounded third as we dug  deeper into the past at a local ristorante. Over appetizers and entrees, presented like works of art, we compared our own recollections of the stories we had lived and the stories we'd been told. And still we reminisced -  over dessert, espresso and the requisite anisette.

Home run.

By nine I was driven  back to Penn Station and on an Amtrack train headed north to New England. Back in my own bed by midnight.

What a day!  I 'm  grateful my cousin Joe located me through Peoplefinder.com. He reopened a window to the past with his brave phone call, and at the same time gave us a future to look towards.

Is there a long-lost cousin you'd like to contact?

 

(TO READ THE PREVIOUS ENTRIES TO THIS SERIES CLICK THE NUMBER BELOW )

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE

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A Cousin Encounter of Another Kind (Five)

(TO READ THE PREVIOUS ENTRIES TO THIS SERIES CLICK THE NUMBER )

                                            ONE TWO THREE FOUR

I felt anticipation and fear as I waited to greet my cousin face to face. Would we be more strangers or buddies? Would we prune the broken branch of our family tree? Encourage growth again? He had called me, hadn’t he? I thought as the door opened. I stepped up onto the threshold and leaned into an embrace that lasted the equivalent of two or three bear hugs.

Fort Hamilton neighborhood

Joe introduced me to his landlord who appeared in the hallway, as landlords tend to do. “This is my Cousin Laura who I haven’t seen for a long time."His voice - full of emotion.

I went to sit on the  platform of the small stoop. Small as compared to one I remembered from the house I grew up in on 17^th   Avenue. My cousin filled the doorway, his body supported by a cane, as we waited for his sister and mother to park on the street. “You look thin,” he said. I guess weight is relative.“There they are.” He pointed to his mother and sister as they walked toward us from the car. My aunt, 80, smiled broadly. Our hug – mutually grateful.

“You look wonderful,” I told her.

“Well, I don’t  feel so wonderful,” she replied as she gave a dismissive wave. But there she was, warmer than I remembered. Yet, I wonder if any of us can distinguish between what seemed so - way back when - and  what really was. Or how different our reality was compared to our cast of memory-makers. My father’s brother, not his wife, had been the main character of the family, for better or worse. He left a lot opened to interpretation. But then, don’t we all?  

Joseph’s sister climbed the steps. I was thrilled to see her. And even though she had, of course, aged, she seemed full of energy - clearly reminding me I was over five years older than her. I’ve lost count of all the times I’ve thought about how different I would be today - if my parents had not moved out of Brooklyn when I was ten. Did my cousins who stayed offer a glimpse of that difference?  

We headed to the car. My aunt said,“Let’s drive to 78^th Street,” then turned to me. “You want to see you old house?”

Did I !

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HOME IS WHERE THIS WEEK'S TARGET SALES ARE. CLICK HERE
 

A Cousin Encounter of Another Kind (Four)

(TO READ THE PREVIOUS ENTRIES TO THIS SERIES CLICK THE NUMBER BELOW)

                          ONE  TWO THREE

I boarded the N train in the city at 57^th Street and 7^th Avenue. After a local stop or two the train emerged into the daylight.I could see the Brooklyn Bridge span over the East River through the window across from me, Just past the bridge, a looming Watchtower sign came into view. The last time I focused on these landmarks was on my TV screen, September 11, 2001, when thousands of Manhattanites mass exited the city. What looked Apocalyptic then, appeared as serene as a busy city could be serene on this sunny, humid morning.

Still, I could not keep myself from thinking What am I doing alone in this railroad car of strangers? Then I saw the chart of stops farther down the N line; ones that had a more familiar ring to them: Prospect Avenue, 59^th St., New Utrecht Ave., 86^th St. I remembered how my mother had so enjoyed wheeling her shopping cart in, through, and out of the small, Italian family-owned storefronts that lined 86^th Street and 18^th Avenue, before she became a reluctant Nutmegger. 

The train stops ran all the way down to Coney Island. It occurred to me: I might not only be trying to recapture the past. Maybe I was starting a future.
 

I followed my cousin’s instructions and got off at the Fort Hamilton station. I had planned to pick up a dozen cannoli  on the walk to his apartment. Within a half block I realized the 1950s “Little Italy” neighborhood I use to visit as a child had changed its milieu from Mediterranean to Far Eastern. Blueberry muffins from a Chinese bakery on 8^th Avenue would have to do.

My iPhone Navigation App measured just over a mile from where I stood to Cousin Joe's address. I walked the ascent of street numbers quickly; the avenues, not so much, in the increasing humidity. In about twenty minutes I phoned from the front steps of his four-family apartment house.

He answered, "Be right down". Said his sister, the driver in the family, would pick us up on the stoop. Now there was a Brooklyn word: stoop. In Brooklyn, neighbors sat on stoops - in New England, porches.

(to be continued - just one or two more .....really!)

 

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A Cousin Encounter of Another Kind (Three)

(TO SEE PART ONE OF THIS SERIES CLICK HERE)

My wish to return to Brooklyn and actually getting there were two different matters.

Matter #1: Transportation.
Even with a new Gamin GPS (my old Magellan just stopped taking a charge) I was tentative about following a talking compass through New York streets filled with New York drivers. Each and every one of us, I was sure, would be vying for the same parking spot.

My brother passed on going but suggested rail to Penn Station. Then transfers to Brooklyn.

Matter #2: Finding the right time to visit.
 My cousins and I had talked just before Easter. I wanted to finish up my teaching semester – and then put off the mini-odyssey because my daughter was well into her third trimester. She would be moving into a new house in a few weeks. And, we joked, she was getting as big as a house herself. I wasn't going anywhere until my grandson was born.

I finally set the day trip for mid-August, a month after the birth. And then the sciatica kicked in. The sciatica I brought on by putting 1200 miles on my car in two weeks as I drove back and forth to the hospital in Worcester, MA where Patrick was born, and then to his home just south of there.Who knew, moving foot from gas pedal to brake to gas pedal, over and over, would further irritate the inflamed nerve?

The Doctor apparently knew –  as soon as I told him how I'd worn a groove in the I-84 fast lane the previous few weeks. He ordered me off the road -four days at least. And a muscle relaxer.

Finally, a week after Labor Day I set out for Brooklyn. I boarded a 6 A.M. Amtrak train and pulled into Penn Station by 9. I asked a transit worker in uniform to direct me to the N train connection my cousin had said to take.

“You have to go out on the street for the subway entrance.”

Subway? On the street? I thought. This was getting  complicated. Thankfully it was second nature to the police officer on the corner of 33^rd Street and 8^th Avenue who directed me a couple of blocks uptown to a subway entrance.

I was almost there.

(to be continued - one more time!)

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