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?
(A nod to
Dorothy Parker on Coolidge!)
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….
