heron bird animal by roughcollie from dreamstime

Sunday, we read by candlelight, scrunched around the kitchen table.We made s’mores using the gas stove which still worked.

Earlier, my brother and I had driven to my parents’ town which had power listening to reports on the radio imploring us not to, but my brother had to see if his six hours of work was still saved on the hard-drive, and I went along for the ride.

There were perhaps two or three other cars on the turnpike, an eerie ride; the rain was a fine drizzle.  Later, a portion of the turnpike would be closed, but we were lucky.  A woman in the tollbooth seemed nonplussed by it all, but for her, the novelty of remarking on Irene had most likely worn off.

Three or four times, we had to circle back; one town was essentially closed, and residents were on the sidewalk, gathered with coffee cups to discuss the trees that had fallen, and the flooding from the lake. A man quietly bailed water out from his store. A fireman had drowned in a rescue attempt, we learned from the radio

Some houses set up their own generators; a friend who lives in the country reports that her neighbors have all hooked up their tractors to produce power, creating a collective hum.

My brother’s neighborhood got its power back, but NJ is still affected by the floods from rivers.  Even as I write, the sky darkens,m but I don’t see the roiling storm clouds heading north I saw on Sunday.

In the midst of all this, I am still riding a wave of good news: my manuscript was accepted for publication.  Ten years of work, the last several especially rewarding as I rode a wave of story-telling.  I am revising, but soon, I’ll really let the book finish itself, as books must do, and begin another.

The sky turned a dusky yellow as the rain picked up.  In a quiet house, the sound of rain can be so comforting, a steady beat that makes you realize that regardless of Facebook, internet, cell phones you are still–we are still connected to nature, even if you are in the heart of the suburbs.

Last night, my family and I ate at a Farm to Table restaurant in Kingston, dining on lavender honey and ricotta, arugula and eggplant caviar, exotic fare indeed.  My niece discovered beets could be yellow, and ventured to try agnolotti, small pockets of pasta stuffed with silken ricotta. A bowl of zucchini and jalapeno soup with yogurt was an Indian family’s dream and eagerly passed around for sampling. We recalled the episode in “Portlandia” about the farm-raised chicken.  There were many more dishes but I remember now dessert, of which we seven shared four creative delights.  But there was more sweetness in the parking lot, laughing and filled with the good humor following a good dinner, as we hugged and talked and hugged some more.   My family, ranging from seventy-seven years to nine, having survived all that families survive, was having a good time.

Eno Tera

http://www.oxfordgardensboulder.com/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2LBICPEK6w

Chris Brown Photography, elephant 7.09

What I’ll miss about this mountain town is too much to list.  I like walking down to my favorite cafe and shopowners call out a greeting.  I like stopping for a chat.  I’ll miss the used booksellers; the overpriced athleticwear store, though they now use a conservative woman’s name to advertise their bras, so I won’t miss it too much, only the people working there; the Indian man who always says hello though I don’t go to his store; the cleaning goods proprietor who waves.  Sometimes I’ll run into a friend, or an old student.

I’ll miss the gourmet cafe, the gourmet pizzeria, and the gourmet restaurant I have yet to try. I will miss the Yoga Workshop.  I will miss the used furniture store.  I’ll miss ordering a pizza from the good pizza place. I’ll miss seeing the sign of our state representative over another sign advertising a dispensary.  I’ll miss the fresh-baked cookies in the my second favorite cafe, the Long Island guys who make sandwiches at the store around the corner.  So much consumerism, so much heart.

I’ll miss the Boulder Farmer’s Market, Red Wagon, Hazel Dell, Sanctuary Chai; Brillig’s Bakery; the Smoothie Guy & Co.; the Sisters Pantry; Udi’s, the Flower women,the Plants Women, and various friends who are ready with a smile or a hug or both.

I miss my friends.  I have already left, as I take up this post again.  I am on the Western Coast, soon to head East.  Despite cleaning the refrigerator, I left two lonely cornmeal pizza crusts in the freezer, as well as my airplane snack food.  At the last moment, a one year-old bottle of green kombucha effervesced, spilling and shooting itself on the ceiling, the walls, the floors.  I ran to my neighbor who ran in with a mop.

How are the flowers I left behind?  Has the beautiful fat jasmine bloomed?  Can I leave off the self-pity?

I forgot to bring the champagne I meant to transport in the car, but I have the coffee beans.  I leave a foodie town, ripe with organics and vitality. I am in transit, in a land of sun.

wine, pizza, sea

sunset