Sometimes it Takes a Hurricane

            We have a lawn again.  Yesterday morning, six weeks after Hurricane Irene walloped Southeastern Connecticut, the tree guys finally arrived.  Now the detritus of our yard is gone.  I can see grass.  I can walk from my front door to my driveway without spraining an ankle.  Everything is back to normal. And I feel . . . sad. 

            Okay, before you break out the straightjacket, hear this: I don’t want another hurricane.  I know that Irene wreaked serious havoc throughout the East Coast, even tragedy.  But here—in this particular town, in this particular neighborhood—something magical happened.

            It can be summed up, perhaps, by what my five-year-old son said when we came up from our basement camp-out the morning after the hurricane and walked outside for the first time.  “Mom, look!  It’s the best tree fort ever!”

            That’s what Ben saw.  Not the downed power lines.  Not the hole in our roof.  Not the $14,000.00 worth of damage and home insurance red tape and hours and hours of yard work ahead.  The best tree fort ever.           

            For the kids, this was nirvana.  A jungle gym that spanned an entire neighborhood.  A lifetime supply of marshmallow roasting sticks.  A road through which no cars could pass, so they could run, climb, ride bikes with abandon.

            Adults, unable to drive, were forced to walk.  Gone were the perfunctory waves from the windows of their SUVs.  People actually stopped.  And talked.  And offered each other a cup of coffee, or a chainsaw.  Teenagers, unshowered and unplugged from their iphones, slouched down the street in their sweats and grunted good morning.  I never even knew they existed. 

             For eight days, we had no electricity.  No running water.   No cell service.  What we had was simple: conversation, the joy of watching our kids play, a shared cup of coffee cooked over the grill, and a reminder that the worst of Mother Nature brings out the best in humanity.

            The power guys came all the way from Louisiana to fix our downed lines.  One mom made them hotdogs.  When the lights came on, we danced in the streets.  Literally.  It was a beautiful thing.  So beautiful I’m hooked on the junk.        
            That’s why I’m sad.  I don’t want another hurricane; what I want is for people to open their eyes again.  Unplug.  Check in.

            So if you’re looking for me this weekend—if you’re looking for me to give you a perfunctory wave as you drive by my beautiful yard in your SUV—maybe I won’t be here.  Maybe I’ll be in the Amish country, raising a barn.