A tree has
fallen through the fence and into our yard. Our power is long gone. And we are
lucky.
We saw,
clip and carry bundles of limbs and branches to the curb. We set up the
generator that Amy’s parents gave us and get it running. We share power and
conversation with neighbors. We watch as workers remove a tree from a roof down
the block.
The skies
are gray. There is a giant wall of wood in front of our house. The branches are
gone from the back, leaving empty holes where wooden fence used to be. The homeowners
behind us can’t even think about fixing those holes because there’s another
tree on their front lawn, having fallen across the street amid a tangle of
wires.
Amy and I feed
the girls, read with them, and do a puzzle. We watch old episodes of The Cosby Show on Amy’s laptop. As we go
to sleep, the rest of the gas runs out of the generator.
Day two
begins post-Sandy, and we spend hours searching for gasoline. We come up empty.
I reach out to friends and learn about the tree that fell through this one’s
roof, and the tree that fell on that one’s car. But my wife and I also hear
that both of our parents have power. Amy packs the girls into the car and heads
up to her parents and sister in Connecticut. I stay behind, working with a
neighbor to siphon gas from his car. While the gasoline trickles into our gas
cans, I rake an elderly neighbor’s leaves and branches. Eventually, I get the
generator going again. People walk the streets in search of wood for their
fireplaces. They take some of mine. The skies are gray.
This is all beginning to look like
a scene out of Cormac McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel The Road. In that book, a father and son trudge through the desolate
streets of a land that will never return to normal, searching for a way to
survive. The dad keeps telling his son, “We’re the good guys” and “We carry the
fire.” The son listens, and they hold onto hope. The book asks us to consider whether
life is more about hope or more about despair. In this post-Sandy world, as tempers
flare at gas stations and the power remains out, McCarthy’s question seems more
and more relevant.
But on
Wednesday night, shortly before bed, the power springs back to life in my
house. It stays on, and it seems to be just a few blocks that have it. I turn
off the generator, go to sleep, and wake up to a home still powered and heated.
With the wireless router now working, I turn on my laptop and begin to learn
more about what’s been happening outside of my small world. As I do this, I
begin to wish I didn’t know. The stories, the photos, the videos, the Facebook
postings – they all feel like a high-tech recreation of McCarthy’s story. I
clean up my house, return it to normal, and think about how I can help.
The friends
with the tree on the house and on the car don’t need help yet, as they need
insurance adjusters and utility workers to arrive first. The neighbors down the
block with no power, though – they’re happy to sleep over. Their thermostat had
been down to 55, so they’re thrilled with 70 degrees and a warm bed. We chat
for a while, and they go off to sleep.
I return to
my laptop and begin to realize how much despair there is on the east coast of my
hometown, Staten Island, N.Y. On Friday, I pack up the car with clothes,
towels, blanket and dog beds, and drive to the parking lot of a bowling alley
in the Dongan Hills section of Staten Island. Burly men greet me at the car and
unload the contents. I stand for a moment and look out at hundreds of bags of
donated items, with makeshift signs indicating “Men’s Clothing” or “Blankets.”
I see families walking around in search of items to sustain their lives, now
that everything they have is gone. I feel a lot less concerned about that tree
in my yard. The desperation I see here reminds me of my trip to New Orleans’
Seventh Ward this past summer.
I decide
against driving around to witness the destruction – I don’t want to be a
natural-disaster tourist. I drive home, go food-shopping, and meet our
neighbors back at the house. They stay over again, and we watch Bruce Springsteen
sing for the suffering. We talk some baseball, too, which feels nice.
The sun
shines on the first Saturday morning in November. My neighbors get their power
back. They thank me and leave with smiles on their faces. The friends with the
tree on their car got it off, and it’s still driving. The friends with the tree
on the roof have decided to go ahead with their plans to have their daughter
christened today. My brother and I are the co-godfathers. Amy and the girls
will meet me there.
There will be no party at the house
after the ceremony; it’s not that kind of week. But we will be there, and we
will stand beside our friends and their infant girl, and we’ll witness a
different kind of water than the one that fell and flooded on Monday.
Another family of powerless friends
may come by tonight, and if they do we’ll eat dinner together and talk and
perhaps they’ll stay over and be warm. As for Staten Island, there are plans in
the works for more drives and fund-raisers. Here in Jersey, the utility workers
remain on the job, around the clock, restoring the grid one town at a time.
It’s beginning to feel, little by
little, like the good guys might win this one after all. It’s beginning to feel
like some hope remains after this truly terrible storm. In The Road, it’s never easy for McCarthy’s fictional father and son to
“carry the fire.” In the real-life world of New York and New Jersey this week,
it hasn’t been easy for us, either. But even in those gray, desperate days of
our lives, it’s really the only way.
