On the other hand, slower isn't always a bad thing. I look around and see more and enjoy my time outside. Today there were gulls and geese, new landscaping near the river, Hurricane Sandy (10/22/12) cleanups ongoing, newly listed homes for sale, spring window displays downtown, fireplaces going (I love that smell), lots of dog walkers and miniscule peeks at the sun.
I'd intended to go for 7 miles but only got in 5. It was really raw and windy and I could have used another layer. Preparation is always half the battle. I hadn't slowed down on Riverside Drive in a while so I hadn't noticed all the tiny flags from the gas company before today. You know ... those markers the gas company puts out before you can dig in an area. They mark where the gas lines are. All of the homes that were abandoned or bought by the town in the FEMA buy-out after Hurricane Irene (8/28/11) have lots of little gas line markers. This is because they will soon be a pile of rubble.
It took my breath away to realize the day that my neighborhood changes forever is almost here. They've been talking about this for a year and I knew this day was coming. But for it to be really here is so sad. I look at those homes and think about the families that lived there. Young ones and older couples. People forced to relocate because the river overflowed into their homes one too many times. I look at them and imagine birthday dinners and Christmas trees, kids taking their first steps and prom dates arriving, laundry, lawn mowing and laughter. Simple lives lived in my dear sweet little neighborhood of regular folks just looking for nothing more than keeping up and enjoying what they have managed to acquire.
My thoughts then turned to other communities devastated by natural disasters. Ours was a blip compared to what you hear about on the news. There are only a dozen or so houses coming down. Statistically speaking, I suppose that's not a lot. But when it's your backyard that will be changed forever, it doesn't really matter if it's 12 or 120. Although it's 3 streets away and I didn't personally know these people, their stories are known to all of us. Some have moved to different homes in the neighborhood. Some just fled after the storm. Some people built their homes back (one whose home slipped off it's foundation, built a beautiful, bigger house) and others couldn't face the thought of renovating only to have the next storm take it all away again. I admit with the amount of snow melt and rain we have going on at the moment, I'm wondering if I can face the water that will inevitably invade my place in the coming month.
But what must it be like to live in a place that's completely wiped out by floodwaters or a tornado or earthquake. How do you build back an entire town with schools, stores, houses and businesses? How do you trust and have faith and courage to start over in the face of such disasters. I'm in awe of the communities that do it. Just as I'm in awe of mine. Our disaster--albeit on a smaller scale--proved that you can face challenges and rise above them. That hard decisions, like leaving your home behind and starting fresh, can be made and families can come through great difficulties.
I'm rambling again. It was hard to be reminded of the reality that changes occur whether we want them to or not. It's hard to accept that where people once lived, there will soon be catch basins for river run-off that will supposedly protect the other houses that remain along the river's banks. Having houses disappear forever makes me feel insecure, I suppose.
Little tiny yellow flags lined up on the once well-manicured lawns of formerly well-kept homes. Tiny symbols of surrender. Oh Irene: I guess you did win a few battles.
Evacuating on my street. My end of the road is just slightly higher. This image was caught by the local paper in the hours just after the rain.
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