Notes from Irene: Beware Flying Dachshunds

10:00 p.m., Sunday August 28, 2011

Having grown up in South Florida, I know that when the rain and wind from a hurricane let up, you’re not supposed to go outside yet!  If you got a direct hit, as New York did with Irene, it’s just the eye passing through.  And very quickly the backside of the storm can hit you, sometimes with even greater force.  People have gotten caught in that to their misfortune.

However, the radar images of Irene showed all the action to be on the front of the storm.  Several hours had passed since actual landfall.  I was seeing people walking up and down my street.  And frankly, I had cabin fever.  So I hoofed it outside and headed to my favorite walk through Hudson River Park along the river.

The wind was still brisk and the skies completely clouded.  But when I got to the park, you’d have thought it was the first warm Sunday in spring.  Apparently everyone had a bad case of cabin fever.

I was a bit dismayed, I have to say, to see lots of people with infants strapped to their chests in those Babybjörn things or even in open strollers.  Occasionally there were some pretty intense gusts.  Any of those babies could have been struck by an unleashed dachshund (of which there seemed to be an inordinate amount as well) that had been swept off its stubby, little feet by the wind.

I didn’t actually witness any such accidents, but really, it could have happened!  I don’t consider an unmoored dachshund a loss, but a baby is another thing, even though I resent them choosing seats near me on airplanes.

Here’s a picture of the cloud cover on the backside of the storm taken from Hudson River Park.  On the left, the tallest building you see is 1 World Trade Center (formerly  known as the Freedom Tower) rising above the surrounding buildings.  The Jersey City skyline is on the right on the other side of the river.

And with that, we say “Goodnight, Irene, and Goodriddance.”

The backside of Irene over the Hudson River

Notes from Irene: Some Wham, a Bit of Bam and Thank You, Ma’am

12:00 p.m., Sunday August 28, 2011

I sleep in until 10:00 a.m.  So I miss the storm’s 9:00 a.m. landfall in New York City.  Waking and dozing off since 8:00 a.m., I register somewhere in there that if I’m reading the time on the digital alarm clock, the power’s still on.

Irene lost some punch and came through New York as a tropical storm.  At least for me on West 16th Street in Manhattan, the wham and the bam seemed minimal.

The Weather Channel is showing photo tweets from the area, including flooded streets and a big downed tree leaning against a brownstone in Brooklyn, its root system now perpendicular to the sidewalk.  Hard to tell if the building was damaged.

My tree held.  Now, when a gust on the back side of this storm blows through its dense leaves, it showers the pavement like a wet dog.

Facebook and Twitter are full of comments about the media and government overblowing the storm.  But all I have to say is “Thank you, Irene,” for not being worse than you were.  You can drain the tub, you can unpack the go-bag, you can put away the flashlights, and go on your merry way.  But if things had been worse and you weren’t prepared, you’d only have had regrets.

I count my blessings and say thanks.

Still Standing

Notes from Irene: The Sort-of-Calm Before the Storm

11:00 a.m., Saturday August 27, 2011

There is an air of restrained edginess in the crowded Westside Market, my  neighborhood grocery store.  But only the packaged meat counters are noticeably spare at this point.

I drop my groceries at home and go out for my last errand — I’m low on vodka.

Sadly, my liquor store is closed.  The noon shut-down of the entire New York City public transportation system has forced many small shops not to open: owners and workers who live in the outer boroughs might not have been able to get home.  I may have to make do with two pricey bottles of Veuve Clicquot Rosé I was going to  bring for a weekend at my friend Kay’s house in Cape May, New Jersey.  Obviously, we didn’t go.  Cape May, ocean-side at the very southern tip of New Jersey, was evacuated yesterday.

In the neighborhood, there’s a bizarre combination of emergency preparedness and nonchalance.  The Blue Water Grille and the Puma store on Union Square West have taped their plate-glass windows.  Perhaps they anticipate a run on seafood and running shoes.  Directly across the street in Union Square, the Saturday green market is in full swing — a sea of flimsy tarpaulins and tent poles pitched on asphalt protects vegetables from an absent summer sun.  People still mill about, mulling over apples and artichokes.

Returning from my fruitless liquor run, I notice a man hawking over-priced LED flashlights and lanterns from a parked van.  On my street, I pass a woman holding wrapped cut flowers in one hand, and a child on a Razor in the other.  We all have our priorities.

I’ve let the elderly sisters next door know I’m here, should they need anything.  They are so like my mother and aunt, who lived together for the last twenty-odd years of their lives in Florida.   We’ve lived next door to each other for over a decade, and though we say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you doing?’ in the hallway, I actually introduce myself by name for the first time, when I knock on their door this morning.  This is New York: packed together and stacked on top of one another, we allow each other our privacy and anonymity.

It’s begun to drizzle.  The sky is getting darker.  But there’s no wind yet.