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 Beginning

12:15 a.m., Sunday August 28, 2011

For several hours now, the rain has been steadily coming down.

I’ve done everything I’ve been advised to do: stocked up on groceries; filled the freezer with Ziploc bags of water that will freeze and keep food chilled in the event of a power outage; put flashlights and batteries and a battery-operated radio within reach; prepared a ‘go-bag’ with clothing, meds, important documents, glasses, water and snacks, should I have to evacuate; filled the bathtub with water; even printed out my calendar for the next two weeks, since all that information is captive to electronic devices that will quickly be drained in the event of several days without electricity.

I have some dinner.  Chat online with friends.  Get emergency messages from the City of New York by text, email and phone.  Watch Disc One of  1963′s Cleopatra with Elizabeth Taylor.  I’ll save Disc Two for tomorrow.

I raise the blind, open the window and sit on the window-ledge with a cocktail, taking in the scene outside.  The air is warm and saturated with moisture.  Earlier, a fabric of rain visibly billowed across the pavement in the northeastern wind.  Now it just comes down.

There’s a ubiquitous drone of machine noise in Manhattan at any hour of the night or day.  I’ve often wondered how there can be such a constant sound of motors.  I hear it even now; and then I think, maybe this is actually the wind being forced between the buildings.  Whichever, a treble overlay of raindrops on puddles accompanies it now.

The occasional car still drives down my street.  A woman stands beneath the awning of our building with a small dog off his leash, undoubtedly hoping he’ll do his business without a walk.  She needn’t worry; he seems none too interested in venturing out from underneath the awning.

Across the street from me, there is a beautiful old tree.  It rises five stories high, and its branches canopy the street in front of me.  A landmark brownstone coyly hides behind it.  It creates a lovely, urban view from my fourth-floor windows, which I’ve often admired.

As I looked at it today, I was certain that were it to uproot in a heavy wind, its upper branches would come smashing through those windows.

I close the window.  The peak winds are expected between 6:00 a.m. and noon today.  I lower the blind before I go to bed, as if that might provide some protection.

My tree on a winter morning from my living room window

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.