Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Stormy Weather

Well, well, we’re in full storm silliness.
A tropical storm, expected to become a category 1 hurricane, is going to pass 58 miles to the south of Ponce, the second largest city on the island, at 2 AM tomorrow. 
First question. Where did this number—58 miles—come from? How does anyone know? How can anyone predict?
Second question. What to do? Well, in the past I went crazy. Or rather, I joined the craziness. Even as I write, there is a run on gas stations. People are lining up—or rather their cars are. Fights are erupting. The social networks are going crazy. The Aguadilla Shell station has run out of gas!
Walmart, of course, will have activated its emergency plan. The buyers will be frantically calling suppliers, who are supposed to have sufficient supplies of crucial items.
Salchichas!
That’s little chicken sausages to you. Yup, they’re utterly necessary in an emergency. People consume ‘em like crazy. And yes, people fight for them in the stores.
It’s not pretty. Two little old ladies whom you’ve seen and chatted with over the past year? Those sweet dears who call you m’ijo and wear little pins of pope Benedict?
They’re attacking each other with their canes!
No, I’m not exaggerating.
Well, those chicken sausages are important. But guess what really gets the crowd boiling?
Ice!
After Hurricane Georges, there were numerous reports of armed robbery. No, not for money. For ice….
The governor, stung badly by the defeat of his referenda, is milking the situation. As I write, the sun is shining brightly, a gentle wind is blowing, the banana kwit (called the reinita, or little queen) is flirting with the cat. It hops on the branches of the dead bougainvillea just out of reach of Loquito, and skips away when he lunges.
In short, all is normal.
The government, however, has completely shut down.
Ah, one thinks, how can they tell?
We are urged to take all possible precautions to safeguard life and property. The refugios are being set up.
Well, the little old ladies are fighting over those salchichas, but the guys?
They’re going for the beer!   
And me?
Well, I took my morning trot as always, and decided no. I’m not doing this storm. Rather, I’ve done it. I’ve weathered more in the last two years than I had for decades of my life previously.
And in March of this year, I weathered the hardest storm—harder than Franny, harder than Walmart. 
I took on myself.
Touch and go, there. For a week, I battled all the fear, all the insecurity, and the accumulated self-defeat and doubt. Was I any good? Could I write? Was I worth it?
“Bach when I need clarity, Beethoven when I need courage,” wrote Susan, or some such words. So each morning I walked to the beach listening to the Goldberg Variations. And then, after a week of turmoil, I walked by the walls of the old city to the mouth of the harbor, and confronted the open sea. 
And heard the music you’ll hear below.
And said, finally, goodbye to Franny.
Who’s gone, and who isn’t.
I was crying, I was shaking, I was wracked with gratitude for a woman who had given me life. And I was amazed that she had placed her own life in my hands, and entrusted me with her death.
She had all the nobility of all her dogs and cats for whom she had done them same.
“You can go now,” I said. “I’m OK now.”
And I was.
I came home, turned on the computer, wrote a post. Cleaned the house, did some wash, played some Sudoku.
Six o’clock, slam of the gate, steps on the hall. Raf!
“How was your day,” he asked.
“Great!”
And it was…. 

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