Stormy Weather

It’s a dreary, rainy evening and beef barley soup is bubbling on the stove, garlic bread toasting in the oven.  The forecast for the week is more of the same—storm clouds every day through Sunday.

A week ago we emerged into sunshine after bracing for Hurricane Irene’s wrath, which hit us not nearly as violently as we’d anticipated. Unfortunately, my New England friends were not so lucky. Some folks from my old neighborhood went powerless for almost a week.  School was delayed from opening for three days.  But it’s the Vermonters who bore the brunt of the storm in the least prepared way.  Sure, Jersey flooded, but Jersey always floods.  Nothing new there.

A VT stream during quieter times.

For over 15 years I’ve attended writers’ workshops in central Vermont.  The sudden view of the mountains as I cross the border into the state never fails to take my breath away.  It is at once green and rocky and rugged and tranquil.  Pennsylvania is a beautiful state, but there’s just something different about Vermont.  I spent the summers I didn’t make it up there yearning for it.

So now as I listen to the rain on my window, I think about those Vermonters who are still stranded in their mountain homes, or cleaning up their flood-ravaged properties.  The other day I found a website that showed where roads were closed and bridges washed out.  The road that runs through the picturesque little hamlet of Chester, the route from the Vermont Country Store to my workshop—closed.  The road leading to the Weston Priory—closed.  I can imagine the industrious monks on the mountain, like a busy hive of bees, repairing and restoring their compound.

The Katrina debris we cleared

I want so much to be there, to help somehow.  I itch to clear debris, tear out drywall, install insulation.  After Hurricane Katrina, I made four trips to the Gulf Coast for cleanup and recovery.  Surely there’s some relief organization somewhere that’s organizing work crews for Vermont.  From what I can ascertain by scouring the internet, the biggest problem are the roads—or in some cases, the sudden lack thereof.  I guess once outsiders can get in, maybe groups of recovery workers can help.  That may take months.  Even years.

I’ll be waiting.  In the meantime, if anyone knows what else I can do (besides pray), I’d be glad to hear it.