The Wrath of Mother Nature

This isn't a childhood memory.  It happened yesterday, but this is one of those things I will in the future tell my children and my grandchildren that I lived through.  This is one of those events I will talk about, even though I wasn't at the heart of the worst of this storm, I was a part of it.  I know people who were robbed by it; I know those who were terrified by it.

Irene made her way into central Vermont in the early hours of Sunday morning, August 28th, 2011.  The rain was fickle and sparse to begin with, but the sky was dark and as the day grew older the sky grew darker, the rain heavier, the wind more fierce.  There was no torrential downpour that came in sheets so thick I couldn't see past my arm's length like there was earlier this year during the spring flood, but the rain came steadily. 

At around two o'clock in the afternoon, I decided to take a quick walk down to the closest bridge.  Granite street bridge is flocked on this side of the river by old granite sheds and industrial buildings, and a tombstone designer.  I shuffled in my knee high boots and rain jacket through the rain that whipped at right angles against me to the edge of the bridge.  Looking over the side, I realized that the water drain emptying into the river was a torrent.  I wondered how long it would be until the drain was covered.  I still continued to tell myself that it wouldn't get covered; the rain simply wasn't heavy enough.

As  I walked back to my apartment, I started to look down into the storm drains, wondering how high they were.  I realized then my street may actually have a chance of flooding, where it didn't in May.  The storm drains all seemed mostly full, coming about a yard from the drain and consequently the street itself.  I kept telling myself it was fine.  Surely, Montpelier wouldn't flood again after the supposed "100-year flood" we had this spring.  After all, we're supposed to have a century between each devastating flood.

I went home and made lunch with Jeff.  Shortly after, the overcast gray skies and consistent pattering of the wind and rain against the windows lulled me into a haze, so I wandered into the bedroom, curled up under the warm green comforter and fell asleep.

I woke up around five-thirty in the evening and in a daze I got up.  The power was still on.  This was a great sign - the wind wasn't taking the toll they were expecting.  Waters must be receding, as I couldn't hear the same level of rain falling on the tin roof over our porch.  Jeff and I made dinner, watched television and enjoyed the rainy day while it lasted.  It smelled like fall, and it was chilly.

During dinner,  I started to hear sirens every five minutes; police sirens, ambulance sirens, fire truck sirens.  I got curious.  So after washing dishes and cleaning up, I told Jeff I was going to go see what all the hubbub was about.  He told me to stay dry and be safe.  I borrowed his camera, in case the water really was high so that I could document it, just in case it had gotten worse.

The first thing I did was walk to the same bridge I had before.  The water had risen at least 6 feet since I had last been there, as the storm drain was no longer visible.  Granite Street bridge is at one of the higher points along the river in Montpelier, so I knew if it was this bad here, it would be worse downtown.  I decided that my jeans were already wet and at least the top half of me was kept dry by my rain jacket, so I started down the bike path towards town.

As I got towards the end of the bike path, behind the restaurant Sarduccis, I happened to look over the side of the fence.  I had taken a few pictures along the way and noted that as the bank got lower, the river was closer to flooding.  As I looked over that fence, I realized that I was looking at water that was nearly to the tops of young trees that stood normally approximately seven to eight feet tall.  I wanted to continue walking - my curiosity was insatiable.

I made my way off the bike path by following the train tracks from Angelino's to the alley between the dry cleaners and the bank.   I turned onto Main Street, stepping into a huge puddle.  This time I decided to wear flip flops.  I thought it a wise choice after stepping in a few deeper puddles.

There were really no visible signs on Main Street of any kind of damage.  I noticed police cars pulling into and out of the alley between the Lost Nation Theatre and Rite Aid.  Fire trucks were parked out in front of the fire station and people in slickers and wellies were wandering around town, some even with their small children.  It couldn't possibly be that bad if people were out walking around with their small children.

I made my way around the corner on to State Street, headed towards the state house.  I crossed the street and peered over the bridge by Capital Grounds at the river.  To my horror, the water had reached a point only approximately twelve to eighteen inches below the bridge.  I decided to go on.   Crossing the street again, I noticed that the Julio's parking lot was blocked off and there were people looking past the saw horses into the back.  I feared the worst, knowing what had happened this spring.  Wandering over to the blockade, I looked and saw the Julios parking lot, now converted into a dangerous swimming hole, probably filled with trash and debris.  Someone's golden retriever was wandering around in the water and there were a couple of people in yellow slickers eying us bystanders warily. 

I figured that if the water here was already this high, then the high school must already be flooded.  I started back down State Street, further into the flood zone.  I decided that getting a little further away from the river would be the safest, so I headed for the bike path.  The water in this area of the river was swollen, pressed against the bottom of the bridge, the footpath, and the train trestle, thirsty for destruction.  I stood on the bike path bridge and took pictures of the train trestle.  I began to notice the sound of something striking metal.  I couldn't place the sound and wasn't sure if it was coming from underneath me or in front of me.  I didn't feel the bridge doing anything so it wasn't the bike path.  I started noticing smaller debris floating out from underneath the bridge I was standing on, and then larger debris.  A huge piece of driftwood, probably once a tree, floated right underneath my feet.  When it came to the trestle, it made a very loud noise against the metal and then a crunching sound as it was sucked underneath the bridge.  It was time to keep going.

I decided I would brave it and try to make it to the high school.  I continued on the bike path almost to the bank across the road from the high school when I looked back over to my right towards the river.  I could see water lining the bike path as though the bike path itself was the river's bank.  I lost my nerve.  I turned around and started to run, my flip-flops slippery and my jeans soaked.  I made it back off the bike path on to State Street and walked from there, but I didn't stop for any more pictures after that.

I made it home safely, and luckily for me and Jeff and our cat, we didn't have to evacuate and we didn't flood at all.  Our condo, which we haven't moved into yet is also safe -although the town of Richmond was inundated.  In fact, towns all over the state, especially in southern Vermont, sustained considerable damage.  I heard from a friend that a man and his son in a small town near Rutland, Vermont were stranded on the roof of a gas station building until this afternoon (Monday August 29, 2011).  A woman was sucked into a raging torrent and is presumed dead.  Families have lost a few things and some have lost everything. 

The last I heard, Obama had pronounced Vermont in a state of emergency.  I've heard people predict this flood will rate worse than the 1927 flood.  The good thing about Vermont though is that we all pick each other up.  We grab a shovel and we help clean up our neighbor's yard.  If we have food and didn't have damage, we feed the people around us who have nothing.  And we always make sure those we know are taken care of.  It has always been this way.  It's like no matter how depleted our Vermont ethics become, we have a natural instinct that grows in disasters and times of need.  We find a way to make it work.

"I lived through the Vermont flood of 2011", I will tell my children and my grandchildren.  "I didn't have to do much, but I saw it happen.  I saw history destroyed - covered bridges washed away, factories and home-grown Vermont businesses flooded.  I was in Montpelier, and I was lucky enough to have been out of the brunt of it, but I remember it.  I remember the pictures and the news articles, the first hand accounts and the offers of help and those who reached out to their neighbors."

I lived through the second 100-year flood in six months.

All That is Great and Beautiful in the World

For all those who love children and summer and everything else that helps keep the world alive.

A Flock of Horses

There was one year, not long after we moved in to the house my mother built when we were young, that a thunder storm loomed over the horizon. We could see the lightning flickering inside of the monstrous black cloud that loomed with its hunched back, and we could hear the cracks of thunder peeling after each flicker. My brother and I were standing in the front yard, watching it make its way towards us. It lumbered over the shadowed hills like the great giant beast it was. Luke and I stood there, waiting for the fat freezing rain drops to fall. We could hear them smacking against the hill in front of us, watched them fall but felt nothing.

Then the rain hit, cold, and freezing and wonderfully refreshing at the end of a hot humid day. We stood there listening to the thunder and watching the lightning when the ground below us began to shake. It felt like the thunder that we had been listening to above us had suddenly and swiftly moved to the ground below us, until it cracked right above our heads again. I began to frantically look around, grabbing my brother by the hand, when suddenly I saw the wild eyes and wind-blown manes of our neighbor's horses as they crested the hill. Somehow having made it over their electric fence (or perhaps the power went out and thus the fence) they had, apparently, felt that heading in the direction of our house was the most logical answer to their panicked dilemma. I grabbed Luke by the hand and pulled him towards the garage, screaming to my mom the entire way.

My mom flung open the front door, looking as if she may have a heart attack; she said later I had been screaming like I was being murdered. Consequently, seeing the horses in our front yard surprised her, but she was still more angry at me for screaming like I was being attacked with a butcher knife.

I'm not really sure what happened after that, only that she called the neighbors to come and get their horses. I'm not even really sure how the neighbors got their horses back down the hill, because there had to have been at least ten of those ragged and frantic beasts in our yard.

Sunday School

I always hated going to church; it was boring, listening to the sermons and the pastor read the cryptic words of the bible to the congregation. But I loved the people I was surrounded by there. The pastor, John Paterson, was a good man, and at least he tried to make the sermons interesting. Halfway through church, he would call all the children of the congregation forward and talk to us, ask us questions, encourage us to answer them how we pleased; and our answers were never wrong. He encouraged us to think on our answers, to reflect on why we answered those questions the way we did.   He encouraged us to think freely.

After he called us forward, his wife Katherine would lead us back down the aisle and downstairs, where we would have Sunday school. We all sat around the table and did arts and crafts, cutting bits of construction paper as we saw fit and pasting them to white paper, drawing outside the lines, chewing on the erases of pencils. Sometimes she would have us do a project around a passage from the Bible, but sometimes she would let our minds roam and find their peace in those simple projects. 

Katherine Paterson, the famous author of children's and young adult's books. She led then and still leads a low-key life, and she was always a reminder of the kindness found in the dusty corners of old churches, a reminder of the kindness we may find in strangers. At the time, I didn't even realize that she was an author; I didn't realize how truly blessed I was to have her to guide me. By the time I realized this, I had stopped going to church; and I didn't appreciate her sedentary teachings until much later in life. 

I stopped going to church because she stopped teaching Sunday school and her husband John retired as the pastor of the church. I stopped going to church because the new Sunday school teacher once told me that my beliefs were wrong, when I asked if it were wrong that I believed in something other than a final death; if it were wrong that I believed in reincarnation. I felt betrayed, but it was not the church or even the people in the church that betrayed me; it was one person alone who betrayed my trust in the church.

My father always said that church didn't have to be only a place for religious people; it could be a place to reflect, or meditate, or simply listen to the stories of an ancient people. It could be a place to learn people, to know your community, to find solace in the kindness of that community. I stopped going to church because of one person, and it has been so long that I do not feel like I can go back. Not only that, but I feel I have found a church within myself, and that it is no longer truly necessary for me to go to a place of worship to reflect on myself, my life, the things I have done or haven't done. I can do that on my own time. I do, however, miss the guidance of my first Sunday school teacher, and the guidance of the other elders in the church. 

I find guidance in myself though, although much of the time I have to dig for it, and I have to dig deep to find it. I find guidance in myself when I begin to fall asleep at night; when I write; when I am with my peers; when I listen to music; when I spend time with my friends and family. Life is not always as simple as finding something where it should be. Sometimes finding those things takes a little work, a little creative thinking. Sometimes life requires a little thinking outside of the box.

The Comforts of Being A Child

I see my dad now with my youngest niece, Ella, who is six years old. He seems so happy and compassionate when he is around her. So often do people say, “your father acts with Ella just like he did with you.” It's not that he's unhappy with me now, or disinterested, but he treats me like an adult. He talks to me like an adult. It's funny to think about when I was a teenager and that was all I strove for. I don't remember exactly which time was the first time he talked to me like an adult, but I do remember feeling proud at some moment when I realized he was treating me like an adult. Now though, I sometimes find myself wishing that he treated me like he does Ella. 

I wouldn't ever say my dad is an uncaring person, but I do see how much different he is with children. I think the majority of true smiles I've seen from my dad are in photographs with me and my younger brother Luke when we were kids, and when he is around children now, especially Ella. He smiles a lot when we have family dinner with him and his wife, even when the jokes are at his expense.

Today at work, my coworker Jessica was talking about how her father will sometimes say to her, “Do you remember when you could still fit on my leg?” She said that she couldn't remember, because he was referring to her when she was an infant. Wouldn't the memories of being an infant, if they stayed with us, be such a reward in times of darkness, especially with loving parents? That was my first thought when she was talking about this. I thought about how much I've been told by others how my parents loved me and took care of me, and I would rather have those memories than the memories of the fights I had with my mother, or the arguments I had with my father; the guilt I felt when I didn't go to college right away or the disappointment I felt when I let my parents down. 

I find myself thinking of childhood as a reminder of what life is. Not the purpose of life; I feel that we all have our own purpose in life, so generalizing that would be to dispose of the genuine wonder that all life brings. I think of my childhood to remember happiness, wonder, awe, and love. I think of my childhood to bring relief and calm, patience and respite when I am immersed in a stressful situation, when I hurt, when I feel as if the world around me is crumbling. 

 

Ignorance is bliss, which is partially why childhood was so comfortable. Ignorance of the unnecessary necessities of adult life; fighting depression, paying the bills, finding and holding a job, being responsible. In some ways I find those who shuck their responsibility admirable; it's a retreat back to childhood. 

 

We all find a road to walk on, and while sometimes that road turns back on itself, and crosses back over itself, it does always move forward. Sometimes there's a wall built across, and we need to take some time to tear it down, but once that's out of the way we keep going. I have to, even though sometimes I'd like to just sit down and wait for something to come along to motivate me. One thing I've found in life is that waiting around for something brings nothing; the only way to make something happen is to trudge on and find it yourself, to initiate it yourself.

An Introduction

To those that read this, or have it read to them; I hope they all remember that in life, I have lived. And while most of my living has taken place in the imagination and wonderment of my childhood, those moments resonate with me in my adult life. I find myself daydreaming about my childhood where some would day dream about their future. I dwell in my past because many of my younger years were some of my happiest. I have my parents to thank for this, and my brothers and sister. All of the children who surround me now, my nieces and nephews, bring me happiness and joy that only children can bring.

I've come to another moment in my life, as all moments come and go. It seems some are bolded in heavy black letters; other moments only slightly italicized. Some moments are partially faded, others barely a whisper on the wind, not even held long enough to be put down in print. There are memories, strong and colorful; others in black and white; some only in pieces, like a film missing bits off its reel. Sometimes my memories come in pieces, or they seem like dreams, and maybe some of them are. 

My memories don't really flow in chronological order. My life is an ever-changing shadow because of this. My earliest memory is of my younger brother choking on a hard candy in the bank. I don't remember how old we were exactly, only that I was younger than five because we still lived in our old house, so he must have been four. I remember him coughing, and my mom hitting his back. In front of her in line was a woman who said “no, don't do that, it will only make it worse”.  There is a point in that memory where I remember her saying she was a doctor, but I don't know where it was placed in regards to the only words I actually remember seeing her speak.  I remember spitting my own candy out across the bank and I remember it distinctly sliding underneath the terminal where members of the bank would fill out their bank slips. I don't remember anything else from that day, but I do remember in the days following that I thought everything I ate I would choke on. I remember specifically thinking I was going to choke while eating cheerios at the dining room table in the old house, with those pink curtains covering the window behind me.