ring around the rosies

McInternet

I found a hot spot at the Mickey D's in Evergreen where I had to do a little bill paying and such before heading down I-65 to no-person's land. I just love that wi-fi is popping up in such random places. Now if I could just find one nearer to the coast, or bottle it up and take it with me.

Thanks so much to all of you for your heart-felt messages of concern. It really makes me feel better to know so many people are looking out for us. I've got a carload of survival gear, 20 gal. of gas on the roof of my car (Holy Incendiary Device, Batman!), a drugged out cat, and a case of Chef Boyardee. I feel like KING OF THE WORLD.

Off to Ocean Springs. Send wattage.

Exile in Greenville

Sorry it has been so long since I've written. I didn't mean for my return to be so dramatic. I've had blogapathy for a while, but now I have a real reason to write. Many wonderful friends have emailed me wondering if I'm okay and rather than try to write about the events of the past few days in detail to each person, I thought, well, if anything is blog-worthy, this is.

Of course, as my friends know but some of you may not, I live in Ocean Springs, MS, on the MS Gulf Coast, a town situated across the Bay of Biloxi from the casinos, pawn shops, and bars that line the streets of Biloxi. We live a little farther east of Ocean Springs, actually, but still in the O.S. school district. Our brand new house is situated about 20 ft. above sea level one mile inland. My husband and I were just transferred down there in January, but I didn't move until June due to obligations in our hometown of Birmingham. So we haven't lived there long, but as this hurricane season has been a rather eventful one, we've had some experience in preparation and evacuation--and complacency. In fact, as of Saturday, I was determined to stay and ride out Katrina and the Waves, my stupid joke I'd started to make, reflecting the lack of seriousness with which I took this storm. I'd left for Dennis and frankly wasn't looking forward to riding for two hours with a howling cat and leaving my husband behind to ride out the storm at the power plant where he works. I don't like being away from home since I'd not gotten to live there very long and spent too much time on the road. It was an attitude nearly everyone I talked to shared. Neighbors, people in my yoga class, cashiers at Wal-Mart. We just didn't relish the thought of packing up again. The refrain was "I survived Camille, so I'll be alright this time." Camille is mentioned in Mississippi more often than the Civil War, college football, or the coming of riverboat gambling, so you know it must have been serious.

Well, my in-laws had come to bring us some stuff on Saturday, driving all morning to get there and my husband debated about whether he was going to board up the windows or not. We, of course, knew that he would, being the engineer nicknamed "Mr. Safety," so he and his dad went to Lowe's and contrived a system to board up the upstairs windows, the albatross of a two story house with no preexisting hurricane shutter system. If you've ever tried to, or even watched someone try to, raise up a sheet of plywood while standing on a 26 ft. extension ladder and screw it to the side of a house, you know how daunting this task can be. It definitely requires two people and one of those people cannot have the upper body strength of a tsetse fly. His dad, however, is the perfect candidate to help. Their completely coincidental visit on that particular day was blessing #1.

BTW, our new house has 27 windows, two doors and two garages, so boarding up is no small task. However, that night until 11 P.M. and the next morning starting at 4:30 A.M. they were able to get everything secured. Waking up on Sunday morning, I saw that the storm had gotten much worse and I started to accept the fact that I'd have to evacuate.

Jim Cantore, storm target that he is, stood on the beach of Biloxi and promised it would never look the same again. Inciting panic, though he might have (and causing my husband to want to go kick his ass for that very reason) we nonetheless listened to him. I've never known a weatherperson to inspire so much animosity amongst storm-battered residents. I heard Orange Beach, AL, has a billboard telling Jim Cantore to stay away. If the Weather Channel anchors are standing in your backyard, you've got problems.

Anyway, we then brought in all objects in the yard that could be projectiles and braced the garage doors, while I took pictures of every item in my house, waving goodbye to each drawer, closet, book, chair, and doodad as I did so. I did not know if I would see it again and had to assume that I probably would not. It was hard, but I knew that it could all be replaced. The important thing was to leave as soon as possible. The waters had already started to rise in nearby bayous and swamps ahead of the storm, reaching out towards the roads and threatening to overtake them. Though the skies were blue, the ocean warned of imminent danger.

Still, several people I talked to said they weren't going to leave. Their house had been okay during Camille, so they felt safe. Later I heard that 40% of Biloxi residents didn't leave. That figure was probably higher in my little town of 20,000 people, but I can't be sure. I just know that no one could conceive of a hurricane rougher than Camille and that's the bottom line. It seemed too unreal. Now we know what unreal is.

So, I grabbed clothes for five days, shoved a kitty valium down the cat's throat and considered taking the other half myself, kissed the hubbo goodbye and drove off. The entire state of Louisiana, my new best friends, and I rode together for a couple of hours over and up the interstate to the little town of Greenville, AL, where my extended family resides and where I now sit in a little coffee shop that has wireless access (blessing # 347--miracle of miracles) typing away.

I talked to the husband many times by two-way radio (what many around here refer to as "beepbeep" radios) as he settled in for the night at the plant on Sunday evening. The next morning we spoke and everything seemed windy but okay down there in Gulfport at Plant Watson next to I-10. With thick concrete walls, steel hurricane shutters, etc., we felt he would be safe there. However, a few hours later, around lunchtime on Monday, the mood had changed significantly. I called to check on him and he said the water had risen suddenly, though they were five miles inland, and he and the other fifty or so workers had to evacuate not to the second but to the THIRD floor of the plant, submerging all the cars in the parking lot, the switchyard, turbines (which therefore threw them in the dark), offices, and everything else. Any higher and they'd have to climb the boilers. The noise I was used to hearing in the background was not the turbines for a change, but the wind and he asked me if I could hear the glass breaking, for the wind was busting out windows in the upper reaches of the plant, raining glass down upon their heads. They were concerned too about hydrogen leakage and what would happen if it caught fire. Because they'd certainly be goners.

However, soon the worst passed over and as we all waited nervously for word from them, the men saw the waters recede and started to venture downstairs, though cautiously because of the still high winds (over 100 mph). Over the next few hours (calling us to let us know, fortunately still able to use their radios), they gradually accepted their fate and do what men do in times of crisis--pulled out the grill. While we were worried about their having basic necessities, they cooked steaks and hamburgers, part of the stash of food the company had put away to feed them in the duration. Turns out there could be no better force to combat the cruelties of nature than the power that is the power company. And no one to know better the restorative power of meat.

But wait, it gets better.

So out in the parking lot, my husband's company minivan packed with tools sat beside the personal vehicle he had brought to keep just in case...the military humvee bought thirdhand a few years ago. A former Eagle scout, my husband believes in being prepared, and that includes the vehicular equivalent of a Swiss Army knife. Plus, a really manly vehicle is always good to keep around for impressing your friends and pulling out teenagers from nearby ditches, as we have also done on numerous occasions. As you may know, hummers are one of the few machines that can tolerate being submerged in water, so when he crawled in its soggy interior, he was able to crank it right up. (blessing #146)

After slapping on some Mississippi Power stickers on the doors, just to make him look more official, he tried to drive up onto I-10 to drive the 20 miles or so to our house, but debris--someone's roof, he thinks--blocked his path. A cop came by and escorted him up the wrong side of the interstate (Blessing #43) where he drove for three miles until he could cross over to the east bound lane to make it to our exit. He forded deep water to drive the six miles of backroads to our subdivision where he found houses in various conditions. I can't imagine the suspense he must have felt when he passed all of them on his way to the back where we live. However, when he arrived, he found our house to be one of the least damaged in neighborhood. Shingles and some siding missing, one piece of plywood from an upstairs window blown off, but the window unbroken. Inside inspection found everything to be relatively okay, too. A small roof leak in an upstairs bedroom (preexisting problem made worse), but what was truly miraculous was no flooding ! That's right, No Water. At. All. I am still writing this in disbelief because I had simply convinced myself that at least the downstairs was ruined. I'd already picked out my new flooring and decided I didn't really need those wedding pictures anyway. Sadly, it was the Vespa I was most heartbroken about. So red and shiny in its garage, unable to drive itself to higher ground. What had that little scooter ever done to deserve such treatment? What that says about me, I'll never know.

Anyway, turns out, though, we're almost completely unscathed. And us only one mile off the Gulf. Here he is FIVE miles off the Gulf in Gulfport, and he could have been wakeboarding out of a third floor window. Compared to the total loss of property and even of life others have experienced, that's truly wonderful. (Blessing #28,927,838,948)

So hubbo, having arrived in the house and found it to be dark and quiet but otherwise okay, decided to sleep there, getting all Mad Max in the process. The neighborhood totally abandoned, he found it a bit eerie, especially when the banging on the front door started and the person yelled, "Hey! Hey! Anybody in there?" Drawing his weapon (see? Mad Max.), by the time he found the composure to make it to the front door, he found not a soul there, the streets all dark and to all appearances deserted. We still don't know who it was. Looter? Lone resident who stayed? Someone needing help? Maybe just someone who saw his flashlight and noticed the boards removed from the front door and wanted to talk to another human. Disasters tend to remove the need for awkward introductions. People in the line at Wal-Mart become your best friend and the stranger in the boarded up house in your zip code your only connection to the outside world.

Anyway, Glenn made it through the night at our house, and stayed to clean up around there this morning, not knowing when he'd be able to return. We feel certain that once road crews and emergency vehicles go out to assess the damage in Jackson County, they'll start blocking off roads and won't allow people to return for several days. I have borrowed a generator and a small AC, in anticipation for the coming weeks with 95 degree weather and no electricity. I've even begun planning a nifty outdoor shower in our backyard that may make us the most popular people on the block. So here I sit, exiled in Greenville*, family around me, waiting to go home. I'm personally just grateful to have something to go home to, and to know already that, from our standpoint, everything's going to be okay.

I just wish my heart knew that. With so much destruction, we feel terrible for all the others, especially our neighbors a few doors down who my husband just informed me lost their homes to storm surge. Why we were spared, I just don't know.

Please pray for those in need, and know that I may not have internet for a while, so don't be concerned if I don't post. I may have to drive to Mobile or points north to get connected, so how that will work remains to be seen.

My husband also just informed me that people are starting to return to the neighborhood, so I'm going to try to go back today after all. He says that the further east he drove, the destruction was considerably less, so the roads may be passable. If I encounter water, a tree, or the authorities, I'll try to find an alternate route, or turn around and go back north.

Wish me luck! Sorry this was so long, but it's felt good to write it all out and express my sincere thanks. Hope you were able to hang in there until now. Thank you and God bless.

* Exile in Guyville is one of my favorite albums ever. Liz Phair will surely forgive me for appropriating her title.

It's me again

Yeah, I know, on my own blog. Who knew? As if anyone else would be writing here without my knowledge. Anyway, I finished two books since the last time we spoke and I wanted to tell you about them. Can you tell I haven't been doing much else but reading? Not even sleeping very much, and that is a crying shame. I'm a big sleeper from way back, even try to take a nap every day, but for some reason--I don't drink caffeine, seldomly consume alcohol, and I exercise--the last three nights have been short and fitful. Maybe it's anxiety about my current working situation--which is from home, part-time and, because of who I am, ridiculously unstructured--and guilt from the fact that even though I don't have kids, I have many things I could be doing around here but for some reason am not getting done. Ennui has set in and it's not pretty.

I'm working on this current situation with a variety of self-improvement strategies, however, but I just felt I had to get that off my chest. I'm a closet slacker who has been masquerading for the past 25 years (about how long I've been in school and working) as a Very Busy Person and I just wanted you all to know that. Rectifying this situation may require some drastic measures, which I'm not prepared to share these at this juncture.

Anyway, yesterday afternoon I finished Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, which is a total gossip rag masquerading as a work of literature, and I loved it. I wonder why I never read this when I was teaching Modernism for the past four years. I could have told my students the dirt on some of these people I preached about, even if it may all have been a figment of Hemingway's nostalgic imagination he drummed up some 30-odd years later. I could have told them about times with Gertrude Stein and her "roommate" and how Hemingway really liked her until he realized she wasn't, ahem, the one who wore the pants in the relationship. And then he only sort of liked her. I could have told them about Hemingway's love-hate relationship with Fitzgerald, whom he called Scott until he was angry at him and then just Fitzgerald. How Fitzgerald couldn't remember Hemingway's last name at first, how unreliable and emasculated Fitzgerald was, especially after his crazy wife told him he should never sleep with any other women because he was not very well-endowed. That's one way of keeping him faithful, I guess. How Hemingway and his wife would leave their toddler son in his crib alone in their apartment for stretches of time with only the cat to babysit him. How Hemingway just worked and drank and worked and drank and worked and worked some more on his writing in cafes--and became annoyed when people came in a cafe to talk to him (gasp! The horror!)--and just waited until the rest of the world came inevitably to realize something he never doubted, his own greatness. This book makes one want to go to Paris on one hand, read all the novels, learn so much more about this time and about this generation and, on the other hand, makes me very glad that I never had these people as my friends. That's what I wish I could tell my students.

Last night I picked up My Friend Leonard, the new book by James Frey, author of A Million Little Pieces. This morning I finished it. It was a quick read, a memoir that continues Frey's saga of his sobriety. This book, however, focuses on his friend Leonard, the mobster, to whom Frey feels he owes so much. It's a moving tribute and a very enjoyable book. I really like Frey's books even though they get on my nerves sometimes. His writing and his personality are very much like Hemingway's, in fact, and annoy me for the same reasons. Like Hemingway, Frey has all the braggadocio, the arrogance, the machismo, the love of violence and strange characters and poverty, the romantic male view of love and the idealism, yet unlike Hemingway, Frey has no punctuation and pitbulls and crack. So there you are. Anyway, his books are not for everyone, are self-indulgent, etc. But a good read, nonetheless.

Okay, now, gotten that off my chest. Maybe I can get something done today.

What's new pussycat?

Yeah, I know, I'm a dork.

Hey all, I'm back for a short visit. Some of you may have wondered what happened to me. Well, it's been a summer of capriciousness. Whimsy, even. After a semester of doing lots and lots of duties, I didn't want blogging to become another one. When the mood struck me this morning, I thought I'd go ahead and sign on, whether or not I have pictures to show you. It could potentially be the most boring blog post ever, but whatever.

Right now, just for context, I'm watching the NASA channel and these poor astronauts changing a flat on the side of the road of the Milky Way. While it's not exactly nail biting TV, the whole concept of what they're attempting just makes my knees go wobbly and I can't look away.( And yet I'm slightly amused that it involves duct tape.) If they screw up, they're screwed. If they do it, they're heroes and Ron Howard makes a movie about them and Tom Hanks gets to pretend to pull a piece of paper out from under the shuttle with his teeth. And the fact that we can all watch it play out on TV just makes me a little woozy. I'm also entertained by the engineering humor the guys are using to break the ice. My husband, being an engi-nerd himself, understands and engages in such banter. For instance, when we pass a road sign that says "No outlets," essentially meaning "dead end," my husband looks at me and says, "Where do they plug things in?" Did I just hear the robotic arm guy ask Heroic Steve to check the oil while he was under there? Heroic Steve has just pulled out the little paint chips from the the undercarriage and now he's like "What the hell am I s'posed to do with this? I have no pockets."

Anyway, enough space drama. I've read three books in the last week. My public library is my new best friend. I've always been a book purchaser, but since moving here I've made a resolution not to spend money on books when I could borrow them for free now that I've time to run to the 'brare before they're overdue. So, here's what I've read so far:

Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld. I loved this book. First of all, it's got a pink and green ribbon belt on the cover. So very 1982. I may have to drag out my pearls and penny loafers if this keeps up. The book details four years of boarding school from the perspective of a midwestern fish-out-of-water girl trying to belong to this crowd of rich, stressed out, potty-mouthed teenagers. It's more realistic than I could even believe. I have become a little obsessed with this author, in fact, and tried to email her to tell her how much I could relate to this book. It's probably for the best that I could not find her email address. If anyone knows how I might find her, however, please let me know, and I promise not to stalk her. Her website holds no clues. Anywho, good book if you want to revisit the horrors and joys of adolescence. What? Some people do.

Le Divorce by Diane Johnston. I saw the movie and wanted to read the book because I thought I really missed something. The book told the full story--hold on, I think the astronauts are taking pictures of themselves by the entrance sign to the Milky Way National Park. So proud of themselves, as well they should be. They should have a kegger with the Canadians.--while the editor of the film apparently had a grudge against the author. Anyway, it was interesting from a cultural standpoint if you're into that as I am. I thought the writing was quite good, but I couldn't get emotionally involved in the characters. Meh.

The Writing Life by Ellen Gilchrist. I picked this up on a whim at the 'brare. It's a series of short essays on various topics, some about Gilchrist's neighbors and family, some about her teaching. They're entertaining and it's a quick read, easy to pick up and put down because there's no real story. I learned a lot about her such as I didn't know that she has a condo here in my little town where she comes to visit her family. And she and her friends read a Shakespeare play out loud every Sunday. Yeah, I know. Anyway, maybe I'll run into her one day. Good little book.

Right now I'm into A Moveable Feast by Hemingway and a few more in the wings.

I've also been to yoga quite a bit. It's really been enjoyable and I'll continue to go as long as it is fun. This Saturday begins the apparent return of pilates to their schedule. I'll definitely have to try that out. Soon I'll be Eileen: "This week I played 400 rounds of golf, lifted my house off its foundation, and went to pilates camp. Oh yeah and knit a comforter in Kid Silk Haze." You'd love to hate her if she wasn't so darn nice!

Oh and also my 11-year old cousin came to visit. We worked on a book report whilst doing many other fun activities including kayaking and rollerskating. He's quite the talker, that one. I don't think he brushed his teeth all week. Of course, not having kids, I didn't think to ask until he happened to ask for toothpaste on his last day here. Meanwhile he'd pulled two loose teeth a couple of days earlier. Ewww. Just ewwww.

Welp, the astronauts are heading inside to study the zero-gravity properties of Labatts, so I think I might go downstairs to study the normal gravity effects of a cup of coffee.

Hope I haven't bored you too much with the books and the space talk. Maybe one day soon I'll come back with some pictures. And knitting. I'm stuck on Empire and dropped some stitches in the early stages of the yoga mat bag from SNB Nation. Just not ready to talk about any of that right now. This space thing has gotten me all worked up.