Sandy's coming our way, and if the National Weather Service, FEMA, and all the disaster-mongers are right, it promises to be a helluva ride. "A history-making storm," power outages of a week or so likely, and damage "never before seen" in this area.
We'll see about the never been seen before.
Our house is prepared. Food and water to last more than a week. Full gas tanks. A battery-powered radio, and cellphones that can be recharged in the car. Plenty of wine, and candles enough to last us until the year 2020 or so.
I was in the supermarket tonight but not as a "storm trooper." Friday just happens to be the day I do my grocery shopping. My cart was piled extra high, not because of the pending doom and gloom, but because my mortgage company noticed I had too much in escrow and sent me a refund check for $220 this week. So I was stocking up on some things double and triple, where the price was good, because I had the wherewithall this week.
I have the choice each week of going to the old supermarket, about five miles away, near the town we moved out of a year ago, or the new one, about two miles from the house. I had an on-line conversation with someone today about the differences, and which one would be better to go to in the midst of this storm hysteria. The old store in the more affluent area with the "richer soccer moms"? Or the new store in the current area, decidedly more blue-collar. This is a clam-digger town, full of salt-of-the-Earth folk. I voted for the latter.
It was only slightly more crowded than usual. The people in there were actually calmer and better-mannered than most Fridays. No carts left in the middle of the aisle while someone decided which of 572 brands of shampoo to purchase. People were cooperating, making small talk, commiserating. The sense of community was palpable but no one seemed to think it felt unusual. I didn't. Checkout lines were long, but people were patient.
Then, of course, there was the family pushing a cart filled with with cans and cans and cans of Chef Boyardee . . . lest we forget we are in the clam-digger neighborhood. If the store sold liquor, that cart would have had a few cases of Keystone Light on top.
We'll see what Sandy's packing. You know, I keep thinking it's not a very scary sounding name for a hurricane. Sandy should be a blond little kid with freckles, or a suburban housewife with an SUV. But we know better (hello, Katrina? you sounded cute, too) and we will be respecting her potential regardless of her innocent moniker.
Good luck in this one, friends. Fare thee well, and don't take chances.
Did you hear the cops finally busted Madame Marie for tellin' fortunes better than they do
For me this boardwalk life is through, babe
You ought to quit this scene too
Sandy, the aurora is rising behind us
This pier lights our carnival life forever
Oh, love me tonight and I promise I'll love you forever
Oh, I mean it, Sandy, girl.
(From 4th of July, Asbury Park, by Bruce Springsteen)