Isabel shrieked through south-central Pennsylvania around 1:30 AM, EDT. I went out to the front porch to shriek back at her and was greeted by gusts of around 65 mph (my husband pronounces those initials 'umpff') shoving their way past the more sedate breezes of about 25 mph.
A good-sized branch from the sassafras tree (40-45 feet tall) at the side of the house lay morosely across the front lawn. I was tempted to walk about the property to see what else might have been wrenched apart, but Isabel graced us with sustained high speed gusts at about that time. I was brave and defiant until the stop sign at the south end of the street began waving frantically for my attention. Discretion being the better part of courage, I retreated back inside.
I sat in the darkened living room, reveling in the sounds of Nature gone postal(*), so to speak. Around 2:30 this morning, I packed it in, lulled to sleep by the howls of the storm and the swishing sound of the silver maple outside the bedroom window.
At a little after 7 this morning, I was awakened by a loud splintering sound followed by a heavy thud. The chain-link fence around the backyard jingled near the sassafras. Outside, the banshee called Isabel still shrilled her way through town, but something didn't sound right about the wind. My curiosity finshed waking me and pulled me back downstairs to investigate.
When I opened the back door to see what was different, the change in air pressure nearly sucked me onto the steps. The winds had changed direction. This must be the backside of Izzie. These gusts seemed stronger than earlier this morning. Maybe I was just more tired and less enchanted with the storm. In the alley on the sassafras side of the house, I saw the trunk-end of what probably jingled the fence. Three big widow-makers blocked the alley, with errant bits strewn like bunting along the fence line under the tree. Thankfully, all the tree bits landed without harming our property or the neighbor's. Be grateful for small blessings, I hear my late mother whisper in my ear.
This is a "pot of tea" morning if ever one dawned, but which tea? I rummaged in the pantry, briefly considering the Darjeeling and the greens. What I sought was Lapsang souchong, but I'm out, it appears. I wanted a strong tea to balance out the wild start to the day. Maybe Assam...maybe not.
Then I saw her, patiently awaiting discovery in the far corner. Ti-Quan-Yin, Iron Goddess of Mercy. To say her name is to issue a prayer, both in supplication and of thanksgiving. Iron Goddess. The words conjure up images of all the strong-willed, defiant women who've blessed my life, all my role-models for making your way through the storms we face. My mother Evelyn, her sister Theda Belle, my dear friend Mardy who died too damned young, my late ex-mother-in-law Marian, Iron Goddesses of Mercy each and every one of them.
So I lift my cup to them all--Evelyn, Aunt Bo, Mardy and Marian--and, with respect and awe for her power, to Isabel. Thank you, Ti-Quan-Yin, for the mercy you've bestowed through this wild and crazy night.
Martha (*)My apologies to all postal workers; I used to be one myself. That expression is unfair to the vast brother-[and sister-] hood of postal employees. As an analogy for wild, unpredictable and freakishly violent behavior, though, it seems to fit hurricanes perfectly. (c)2003 MCMcLemore