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I was supposed to be on Star Island this weekend, but Hurricane Earl’s appearance has changed our plans and so we remain in Lexington, waiting to see what will blow in over the next twelve to eighteen hours.  It’s hard to imagine that big storm while it’s still relatively clear, partly sunny and warm, but sure enough, a still-dangerous storm is churning its way up the east coast.

Hurricane Carol – which hit the northeast coast in 1954 – is a storm that my husband, Ben, remembers as a very small child.  His family was visiting relatives who had a beach cottage on Chalker Beach in Connecticut.  Warning systems were not what we have now, and Ben’s dad loaded the whole family – including the dog – into the station wagon to ride out the storm.  The roads were blocked with falling trees and power lines, and they ended up sitting in a parking lot for hours.  When they returned to the beach house, Ben’s dad remembers that the place had been flooded, and they found the silver drawer in the refrigerator…lots of damage and much to clean out.

As a graduate student in Boston in 1976, I had a summer job running the box office of the Loeb Drama Center in Cambridge.  I’d also decided that I really needed glamour in my life, and gotten fancy porcelain fingernails – long and red and lovely – applied.  That was fine until the hurricane warnings went up for Hurricane Belle, with predictions of a serious hit to the Boston area.  My apartment looked right out on the Charles River, and the night that the storm was to hit, with businesses closing down all over the city, I went home to make preparations.  There I was, with my fancy fingers, trying to tape the windows in the apartment to stop them from shattering in the event of hurricane-force wind gusts, or worse.  As I struggled to do practical things like fill the bathtub with water, put batteries in flashlights, and so on, I decided those fancy fingernails had to go.  I ripped them off in hot water – I still remember the pain – but felt free, afterward, to continue on with my preparations for a storm that never did really come.

Some years later, I lived in Stony Creek, CT, an idyllic place that was mostly like a piece of Maine dropped into Long Island Sound.  In 1938, the hurricane that did enormous amounts of damage to the northeast coast also managed to tear up the Connecticut shoreline, including Stony Creek’s Thimble Islands.  Forecasting wasn’t what it is now, of course.

In 1985, I was doing reporting for WELI Radio in New Haven when Hurricane Gloria hit.  Reporters were dispatched to different locations, and I was told to report from Stony Creek.  Microphone in hand, I stood  near the railroad bridge with the wind wailing around me, providing details of flooding and people who had gone into the fire station for emergency shelter.  Suddenly, behind me, there was a loud crack and boom.  A huge tree limb had come down, perhaps two feet away from me.  If I’d been a little closer, it would have gotten me and the results would not have been pretty.  After that, my reporting moved inside, thought not before I stood there and had the wonder of watching the eye of the storm pass overhead…a remarkable sight.  Stony Creek and the surrounding area lost power for five days in the aftermath of Gloria.

In 1991, having relocated to the Boston area, I got to experience Hurricane Bob, which was projected to make a huge hit on the Massachusetts coastline.  This is noted as the last ‘big’ hurricane to hit this area, at least until Earl.  When Bob hit, the electricity went out and we amused ourselves by playing board games, making cards with our extensive rubber stamp collection, having real ‘family time’ as candles burned, and we made dinner on our camp stove on the porch.  We called Star Island to see how our friends were doing, and spoke on the phone with the iconic Fred McGill, island historian and patriarch, who had been asked to man the phone to provide calm and reassurance to the nervous parents of employees (the Pelicans) still on the island.  Star escaped serious damage;  Martha’s Vineyard, however, was clobbered and when we went camping there later in the summer, the damage was sobering.

And now there’s Hurricane Earl, barreling up the coast past the Outer Banks of North Carolina, and threatening Nantucket and Cape Cod.  The governor and the state emergency management team have put every possible precaution in place, and the likelihood is that this storm will be one that comes close, but doesn’t pound the Massachusetts coast – with the possible exception of Nantucket – with its full force.

Aside from those who remember the Hurricane of ’38, most folks who reside in the northeastern part of the US probably haven’t experienced anything close to the kind of horror and disruption of life that those who live in the Gulf Coast area have survived, more than once. Last week, the 5th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina was observed with music, flowers thrown in the river, with prayers and remembrance and solemnity.  I thought about those who I’ve come to know who call the Gulf Coast home, knowing that their life has not returned to normal in the Gulf Coast region.  It has gone on…different from what it was.  Still, these remarkable people have endured and many have made a commitment to come back to the region they call home.

We all long for a place called home…whether it’s in Louisiana or Mississippi, on Cape Cod, or on Star Island.  And while we wait for the eye of the storm to pass over, we pray for the calm that we hope will follow.  Peaceful, without loss of life or property.  May it be so.

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