Irene's Visit

            We first heard she was coming on Thursday at a faculty workshop on advising. “She’s coming up the Connecticut River,” said John, during the break. “She could easily drop eight to ten inches of rain.” Standing at the second floor window at the Rice-Aron Library, we considered the situation. Downtown Wilmington, we recalled, was under six feet of water in 1938. And then there were all those winds.

            “Did you hear about Irene?” asked Alison when I picked her up at the shop in West B. “An old guy came in and said we could get ten inches of rain.” Located across the way from Mountain Home Parks, the shop sits between the Whetstone Brook and Route 9. Even without the excuse of a hurricane, the Whetstone tends to excess in that part of its journey. Even the proximity of the State Police barracks cannot curb its enthusiasm.

            But we couldn’t dwell long on the problem of flooding. The thought of high winds on our homestead suddenly put hoop houses in a different light. These cheap, efficient structures for growing sweet potatoes and housing meat birds suddenly looked lethal. One hurricane force gust from the east and the blue-tarped version of a covered wagon could suddenly become airborne, spilling Buff Orfingtons and Delawares down Holland Hill.  Our flock of layers had a sturdier home but even they depended on the plastic holding in the big hoop house. Should a flying branch pierce its skin, Franklin and the ladies would be soaked to the wishbone.

            We woke early on Friday and went to work, anchoring the chickens’ covered wagon with rope and re-bar stakes, setting up the stalls in the goat shed so that Wreat and her doeling could spend the storm indoors. We checked the iPhone, made note of the anticipated wind direction and calculated how best to protect our animals. The ducks, we assumed, could fend for themselves.

            During the middle of the night on Friday we remembered that hurricanes have shifting winds. The poultry might be battened down, but the west side of our house still didn’t have siding. A quick inspection showed a number of places where the Typar had crept away from the eaves and where a dangling wire was waiting for a lamp to be installed. I was all for crying and throwing myself upon the earth, but Alison just got out a ladder and went to work. I kept myself busy braiding the onions that had been drying in the wood shed. By milking time, the trim was up on the west side, the lamp installed, and all the tears in the Typar had been mended with tape. We were ready for Irene.

            While the winds were strong enough to knock out power here by 7:30 am, the forecasted fifty-mile-an-hour winds never materialized. The covered wagon barely bounced and the big hoop house puffed gently under the extra ribs of rope we added for good measure. The goats went out for a bit of a browse when the eye passed over and the ducks, already a randy group, were extra-stimulated by the storm. The goings on in their kiddie pool are better left unsaid.

            Around mid-afternoon, we checked the iPhone to see how the rest of the world was faring. My niece in New York was enjoying sunshine, but the pictures on iBrattleboro told another story. “Oh no,” said Alison. “Look at Flat Street!” She handed me the iPhone. The Reformer had posted photos on Facebook of that rascal of a Whetstone Brook. Adivasi and Sams were inundated. The waters in the New England Youth Theater’s parking lot had breeched the front door. “What about the shop?” Someone had posted photos taken from Mountain Park Home. Water was everywhere.

            As we read grim news from Grafton, and sad stories from South Newfane, the puniness of our labor was suddenly apparent. All those hours with ropes, ladders, and bungee cords could not stop those rascally brooks and streams from doing unspeakable things. All our efforts to secure the hillside couldn’t stop the waters from flooding the valley. What can a ladder do against ten, twelve inches of rain? What can ropes do to keep Stanley’s motorcycles dry?

            This morning, the sun is shining proudly over the freshly washed hillside. The leaves have been polished and even the air seems scrubbed of all impurities. The battery in the iPhone is low and the signal weak. We could crank up the emergency radio and listen to the local station to find out more about flood damage but one of us is on deadline. The battery on the laptop should last long enough to finish a column.

            We’re pretty self-sufficient up on this hillside. The hens are laying and goat milk still flows. The chest freezer just has odd parts leftover from last year’s slaughter: a bag of chicken feet that will make a rich broth for onion soup, a pig’s heart that I might grill this afternoon. If the power doesn’t come on for a few days, or even a week, we’ll do just fine. But our hillside pride is greatly tempered by troubles downhill. As the water recedes, let us help you get back to work. If you prefer to throw yourself upon the earth and commence crying, I’ll totally understand.