Monday, October 16, 2006
We’d heard that it was snowing in Buffalo, and that the power was out, but I was surprised when I called home Friday morning. “Well, the car is all right,” A reported, and I was nonplussed. “Why wouldn’t the car be all right?” I asked. “You have no idea,” she replied. Kate reported that M. had told her, grimly, that, “No matter what you’ve heard, it’s much worse,” but what is someone to make of a comment like that? Even knowing that two feet of snow had fallen, even knowing that the power was out. Even discovering, as we did when we got to the airport, that our flight had been cancelled because the Buffalo airport had been closed. “Just get us to Atlanta,” Kate told the woman at the counter. “I’m sure it’ll open up, and we’ll be able to get in somewhere.”
The rest of that story is for another time—but we spent the night in Atlanta, and didn’t get in until about 1:00 o’clock Saturday afternoon. My first inkling came as we drove down Cayuga—the 33 was closed, so we took the suburban back streets to Main before getting on the 290. Cayuga was barely passable, with fallen trees obscuring the houses, and lines down everywhere. It was odd—the warm weather had melted the snow to the point where it resembled what early spring looks like around here, but the fallen limbs and fallen trees made it look as if an entire forest had been dropped. Houses were completely obscured. People were wandering about with chainsaws, or just walking. On Main Street the traffic signals were mostly out, and every tree we saw was damaged. It’s funny how trees are—you don’t always notice them, but under these conditions every tree was a fresh shock. We won’t know the full extent of the damage until next spring, I reckon.
We took the 290 around, on the theory that it would be clear, and that the lack of traffic signals would be irrelevant. As we passed the Chevy plant I noticed the smell of wood smoke. Everyone with a fireplace was burning wood. “Later,” I thought, “That smell will combine with the smell of sour milk.” Lancaster Avenue is a street that is defined by the trees that line it—they are saying that every tree in the city sustained some damage, and if the sample on our block is any indication, I’m sure it’s true. Casualty figures for something like this are pretty undependable, I think. I’ve heard that two people were killed by falling branches. I am not inclined to count traffic fatalities. There will be some exposure cases, I suppose. I’m guessing that the baby bubble we will see this July will make this event a net gain for the population. Last night, in our yuppie neighborhood the streets were lined with the debris from the trees. Most of the precariously hanging boughs are down now, and the curb resembled the way it looks the week after New Years, when everyone puts their Christmas trees out. It was dark in the houses, except for the glow from candles, but it was not completely silent: there has been a run on gasoline-powered generators, and the lawnmower roar of them made a peculiar soundscape. We have two fireplaces, and a gas stove. The telephones didn’t go out, and even if they had, cellphone technology has made being cut off something different in the 21st Century. This is no Katrina, but it is still a jolt—like stepping off a curb just as a car speeds by, maybe. Or having your kitchen catch fire, but be extinguished before the house burns down. This—whatever it will be called— has the feel of a warning. Be careful. Be aware of how quickly things can change. Know how lucky you have been, how lucky you still are.
The rest of that story is for another time—but we spent the night in Atlanta, and didn’t get in until about 1:00 o’clock Saturday afternoon. My first inkling came as we drove down Cayuga—the 33 was closed, so we took the suburban back streets to Main before getting on the 290. Cayuga was barely passable, with fallen trees obscuring the houses, and lines down everywhere. It was odd—the warm weather had melted the snow to the point where it resembled what early spring looks like around here, but the fallen limbs and fallen trees made it look as if an entire forest had been dropped. Houses were completely obscured. People were wandering about with chainsaws, or just walking. On Main Street the traffic signals were mostly out, and every tree we saw was damaged. It’s funny how trees are—you don’t always notice them, but under these conditions every tree was a fresh shock. We won’t know the full extent of the damage until next spring, I reckon.
We took the 290 around, on the theory that it would be clear, and that the lack of traffic signals would be irrelevant. As we passed the Chevy plant I noticed the smell of wood smoke. Everyone with a fireplace was burning wood. “Later,” I thought, “That smell will combine with the smell of sour milk.” Lancaster Avenue is a street that is defined by the trees that line it—they are saying that every tree in the city sustained some damage, and if the sample on our block is any indication, I’m sure it’s true. Casualty figures for something like this are pretty undependable, I think. I’ve heard that two people were killed by falling branches. I am not inclined to count traffic fatalities. There will be some exposure cases, I suppose. I’m guessing that the baby bubble we will see this July will make this event a net gain for the population. Last night, in our yuppie neighborhood the streets were lined with the debris from the trees. Most of the precariously hanging boughs are down now, and the curb resembled the way it looks the week after New Years, when everyone puts their Christmas trees out. It was dark in the houses, except for the glow from candles, but it was not completely silent: there has been a run on gasoline-powered generators, and the lawnmower roar of them made a peculiar soundscape. We have two fireplaces, and a gas stove. The telephones didn’t go out, and even if they had, cellphone technology has made being cut off something different in the 21st Century. This is no Katrina, but it is still a jolt—like stepping off a curb just as a car speeds by, maybe. Or having your kitchen catch fire, but be extinguished before the house burns down. This—whatever it will be called— has the feel of a warning. Be careful. Be aware of how quickly things can change. Know how lucky you have been, how lucky you still are.
// posted by Bill @ 2:51 PM 
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