The novelty wears off.
We're now five days out from when the first slobbery flakes started kissing our trees. There is nothing gloomier than watching the proud resistance of these quiet neighbors as they finally succomb to the burden of the ice, or to the chainsaws of the debris removal crews. Even as they are dismembered and cut down, they are still parading the most vivid colors. It is exceedingly anthropomorphic, yet altogether unavoidable, to view them as tragic victims of a terrible cataclysm. We have no rituals to mourn their disappearance.
Humans too have perished in this misfortune. Two elderly people died from carbon monoxide fumes produced by the gas generators they were running inside their homes and garages. James Moulin died on Friday, cleaning off his driveway, when a tree broke apart and fell on him. He had been a faithful morning swimmer, a gentle and playful man. He was not driven to exercise, had no agenda of self-improvement. He was oblivious to the striving of swimmers in adjacent lanes, never studying their moves or straining to compete. He saw me once in the weight room, rearranging all the dumbbells so I could put mine in their proper place, and he asked bemusedly if I would care to come over and arrange his socks drawer. He had no interest in our team. He just enjoyed being in the water. He would swim a few dozen graceful laps, and then let himself sink down to the bottom and bob back up a few times, blowing bubbles. He would leave at 7:21. He swam for no reason other than to please himself. On the day he died, his wife had warned him not to stand under the precariously dangling branch. She thought it "madness" to shovel snow which a thaw would clear in a day. But Jim took pride in the appearance of his home, she said, and he insisted.
Jim was a painter by trade, and his pride or perfectionism may be at fault -- it is true that our virtues are as fatal as our vices --, but I suspect that cleaning the driveway was a pretext. The atmosphere on Friday exerted an irresistible appeal, one that any sensualist would indulge. Heavy snow was falling, yet the air was warm. Thunder cracked sharply; branches snapped and dropped silently to the deadened streets. Lightening appeared not as a bolt but as a sudden aura, all around. I surrendered to this seduction, on the flimsy rationalization that even though snow was still falling, it would be useful, it would be helpful, to begin cleaning up. "Because it's beautiful," these days, never seems like reason enough.
The material toll of the storm and its aftermath has not yet been calculated, says Governor Pataki. Even if no dollar value is assigned to the trees, the cost of the flood to homeowners and small businessmen is at least in the tens of millions. There is much dithering among officials, and probably fine-tuned calculations about how much federal aid to bother sending to a county which always votes Democratic. I filed an initial report with my homeowners agent today, and thought about what color trailer I'd get if FEMA decided to cover my losses. These seem to include the four basement appliances: furnace, hot water heater, washer and dryer, plus the fence around the backyard. Some of these can be salvaged, in theory, but tonight I notice that the sump pump sounds like it's about to fail, having been running continuously for the past 48 hours. If the pump goes down, the water level will climb rapidly, and then I'd say all bets are off.
Objects of some sentimental value were in plastic storage bins on the floor of the basement. These being narrower at the bottom than the top, and the objects themselves being lighter than water, they were overturned. Toys and clothes from the kids' infancy were soaked.
Miss Whiteside, head counselor of Camp Marymount, used to refuse to be photographed, saying, "If you need a picture to remember me by, you don't need to remember me." This is an occasion to practice detachment. It doesn't come easy.
Morale has been otherwise good. Much of today, the first day back for students, staff, and faculty, was spent exchanging war stories. It appears that I was the hardest hit in our department, though not everyone was on campus today and some may have fared worse. The "haves" generally tended to help the "have-nots" : Amy G. and the Brokaws ran a bath house and laundromat for friends and neighbors, and José Agudelo shared his electricity and food with Callodine and Springville folks. I am pretending to keep a list of those who have not suffered. Rather odd trivia is being adduced -- in earnest, alas -- as evidence of hardship.
The clean-up and power restoration have been largely provided by crews from ten neighboring states and Canada. The guys who rolled down Springville on Sunday were greeted as liberators. Their rig was marked Central New York, and they said they were from Poughkeepsie. When I thanked them for being here to help, they said, "There's no place we'd rather be than Buffalo." Now, this isn't a remark one hears every day, so I had to spend some time thinking about it. What I think they guys from Poughkeepsie meant was that they were pleased to have a chance to repay the favor. I can imagine that the crews from Buffalo have done us proud many times in the past, helping out people all over the state. And unlike crews from certain other locales, who hold their nose when they cross the Hudson, the guys from Buffalo are probably pleased, even excited, to take a road trip.
The Spectrum published a special storm edition, and their editorial criticized the administration's response to the crisis. Admittedly the President of the university was overseas when the storm hit, and true, his entire administration is from the West Coast, where no one practices snow emergencies. Still, wouldn't Bill Greiner have been happy to explain how you close down the campus? "The university's administration and emergency response officials were caught sleeping," wrote the Spectrum. "Although it is too late for this storm, let's hope they learn from their mistakes so that the next inevitable Buffalo snowstorm doesn't catch them napping once again." The frustration of the students matches that of the faculty and staff: those who teach early on Friday morning had no idea whether to report or not, and the so-called "emergency hotline" was not updated until a full day into the crisis. We needed to know on Thursday night that the campus was closed on Friday.
Or as I thought that night, UB2020 is all well and good, but who's planning for UB tomorrow morning?
Humans too have perished in this misfortune. Two elderly people died from carbon monoxide fumes produced by the gas generators they were running inside their homes and garages. James Moulin died on Friday, cleaning off his driveway, when a tree broke apart and fell on him. He had been a faithful morning swimmer, a gentle and playful man. He was not driven to exercise, had no agenda of self-improvement. He was oblivious to the striving of swimmers in adjacent lanes, never studying their moves or straining to compete. He saw me once in the weight room, rearranging all the dumbbells so I could put mine in their proper place, and he asked bemusedly if I would care to come over and arrange his socks drawer. He had no interest in our team. He just enjoyed being in the water. He would swim a few dozen graceful laps, and then let himself sink down to the bottom and bob back up a few times, blowing bubbles. He would leave at 7:21. He swam for no reason other than to please himself. On the day he died, his wife had warned him not to stand under the precariously dangling branch. She thought it "madness" to shovel snow which a thaw would clear in a day. But Jim took pride in the appearance of his home, she said, and he insisted.
Although nervous about the sounds of cracking branches, [Mrs. Moulin] enjoyed their time together doing the chore. "It was a beautiful morning," she said. "We were just about done. We had a little snowball war, and he won." The two were alone. "One of those timeless days," she said Saturday. "We were not looking at the clock, not going anywhere. We had a blessed morning." Then, the tree branch broke. (Buffalo News, October 15, 2006)
Jim was a painter by trade, and his pride or perfectionism may be at fault -- it is true that our virtues are as fatal as our vices --, but I suspect that cleaning the driveway was a pretext. The atmosphere on Friday exerted an irresistible appeal, one that any sensualist would indulge. Heavy snow was falling, yet the air was warm. Thunder cracked sharply; branches snapped and dropped silently to the deadened streets. Lightening appeared not as a bolt but as a sudden aura, all around. I surrendered to this seduction, on the flimsy rationalization that even though snow was still falling, it would be useful, it would be helpful, to begin cleaning up. "Because it's beautiful," these days, never seems like reason enough.
The material toll of the storm and its aftermath has not yet been calculated, says Governor Pataki. Even if no dollar value is assigned to the trees, the cost of the flood to homeowners and small businessmen is at least in the tens of millions. There is much dithering among officials, and probably fine-tuned calculations about how much federal aid to bother sending to a county which always votes Democratic. I filed an initial report with my homeowners agent today, and thought about what color trailer I'd get if FEMA decided to cover my losses. These seem to include the four basement appliances: furnace, hot water heater, washer and dryer, plus the fence around the backyard. Some of these can be salvaged, in theory, but tonight I notice that the sump pump sounds like it's about to fail, having been running continuously for the past 48 hours. If the pump goes down, the water level will climb rapidly, and then I'd say all bets are off.
Objects of some sentimental value were in plastic storage bins on the floor of the basement. These being narrower at the bottom than the top, and the objects themselves being lighter than water, they were overturned. Toys and clothes from the kids' infancy were soaked.
Miss Whiteside, head counselor of Camp Marymount, used to refuse to be photographed, saying, "If you need a picture to remember me by, you don't need to remember me." This is an occasion to practice detachment. It doesn't come easy.
Morale has been otherwise good. Much of today, the first day back for students, staff, and faculty, was spent exchanging war stories. It appears that I was the hardest hit in our department, though not everyone was on campus today and some may have fared worse. The "haves" generally tended to help the "have-nots" : Amy G. and the Brokaws ran a bath house and laundromat for friends and neighbors, and José Agudelo shared his electricity and food with Callodine and Springville folks. I am pretending to keep a list of those who have not suffered. Rather odd trivia is being adduced -- in earnest, alas -- as evidence of hardship.
The clean-up and power restoration have been largely provided by crews from ten neighboring states and Canada. The guys who rolled down Springville on Sunday were greeted as liberators. Their rig was marked Central New York, and they said they were from Poughkeepsie. When I thanked them for being here to help, they said, "There's no place we'd rather be than Buffalo." Now, this isn't a remark one hears every day, so I had to spend some time thinking about it. What I think they guys from Poughkeepsie meant was that they were pleased to have a chance to repay the favor. I can imagine that the crews from Buffalo have done us proud many times in the past, helping out people all over the state. And unlike crews from certain other locales, who hold their nose when they cross the Hudson, the guys from Buffalo are probably pleased, even excited, to take a road trip.
The Spectrum published a special storm edition, and their editorial criticized the administration's response to the crisis. Admittedly the President of the university was overseas when the storm hit, and true, his entire administration is from the West Coast, where no one practices snow emergencies. Still, wouldn't Bill Greiner have been happy to explain how you close down the campus? "The university's administration and emergency response officials were caught sleeping," wrote the Spectrum. "Although it is too late for this storm, let's hope they learn from their mistakes so that the next inevitable Buffalo snowstorm doesn't catch them napping once again." The frustration of the students matches that of the faculty and staff: those who teach early on Friday morning had no idea whether to report or not, and the so-called "emergency hotline" was not updated until a full day into the crisis. We needed to know on Thursday night that the campus was closed on Friday.
Or as I thought that night, UB2020 is all well and good, but who's planning for UB tomorrow morning?
posted by amerune at 7:54 PM
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