"Pray don't talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthing. Whenever people talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain that they mean something else. And that makes me so nervous."
–Oscar
Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest
I am suffering the after-effects of
a bout of insomnia; so I thought I'd try my hand at the written blog...
Friday night (8/10/12) marked six weeks to the hour of the derecho that blew through the East Coast
from Fredericksburg to New York. As the wind picked up and the rain started to
fall with its staccato rhythm on the roof, my thoughts turned to the three
powerless days and nights at the end of June. My dear friend, VH, who is quite
the linguist, educated me about the Spanish word, derecho, meaning “to the right” or in our case, “directly”. She
also let me know about the Latin word, ciborium,
which is the covered container for the host and magnum, a large amphora for wine storage. But I digress…
Last night’s thunderstorm was no
match for the stroboscopic wind storm that blew in with such ferocity from the
Midwest. I have lived here for most of my life and have never seen such a
display. The next few days, as it became evident that much patience would be
required, gave new meaning to “clamminess”. We took refuge in the basement like
many of our compatriots, where it was indeed cooler, but clammier, a la cave dwelling--indoor camping. I
read in The Washington Post that a gentleman who was raised in the South
heard that a Washingtonian denizen “would die” without air-conditioning; he was
quoted as saying, “No, you won’t die; it’s just hot!” Which brings me to my
point… as I met ladies whose usually impeccable coiffures were in full resort
(hurricane) state of non-style (you looked marvelous, ladies!) around town, it
put into high relief the fragility of our collective tether to the Grid. I have
to ask, how did the colonialists do it in Tidewater Virginia in Williamsburg
and Jamestown? The settlers were in full western European garb—long skirts with
petticoats, woolen breeches and stockings. The indigenous peoples must have
been rendered speechless at such sartorial madness.
I was heartened by the rule of
civility on the road at darkened intersections—slower speeds, drivers’ eye
contact and plenty of hand-signalling. Neighbors practicing neighborly
behavior. It took me back a few decades to my childhood that had a greater
share of societal connectivity; you remember, the real
kind—person-to-person. Everyone: re-charge.
