wind blown community

Washington had a little wind on Thursday. Not the kind my grandfather typically inflicted upon us following a traditional English roast, but wind that howled at up to 115 mph east of Mount Rainier.

Trees crashed through houses, blocked streets, tackled telephone wires, and brought down cable poles. Over a million homes and businesses were blacked out; and as temperatures dropped to zero and below, most were also left without heat. Traffic lights, gas stations, and major business centers were all dark. And because no power meant no security, few banks, ATMs, or shopping malls were open for business.

Meetings got cancelled. Appointments rescheduled. And the handful of us who showed up for work, stood around second-guessing the next course of action before getting in our cars and forming the parking lot that used to be a freeway. A ten minute drive through back streets took over an hour. The smell of fresh pine leaves permeated the air, even with windows shut. And familiar roads—now covered in branches, tree stumps, loose wires, trash cans, fallen street lights—became maze-like. Stop, turnaround, up the hill. Oops, blocked. Stop, turnaround, cut through this housing estate; oops. You get the picture … and I was glad to get home.

Despite my Eskimo boots and ski jacket, the wind, now much calmer, cut right through me as I stepped across the lawn picking up wind-torn roof tiles. I looked at the damage to the newly built extension on the home down the road. It’s taller than most of the other houses on the water, and the angry wind of the night before had ripped away two thirds of the roof, taking almost half of the neighboring roof with it.

Feeling edgy, not knowing what to do, I headed up the hill to see what was going on. The coffee shop had power, and although I was often the only customer in there, today all armchairs were filled with people sharing stories of caved in ceilings, collapsed sheds, boat docks folded like accordions, kid’s swing sets that ended up three houses away, and hundreds of dollars worth of food spoiling in the freezer.

Some folks were very matter of fact; they’d been through much worse, and probably would again. Others worried how they would keep their kids warm that night, if their insurance would cover the damage their Douglas Fir did to their neighbor's garage, or how their aged parents were coping.

I thought about the chaos of Christmas that engulfed us up until the day before the storm blew in, and how quickly the pressures of crass commercialism had been replaced with pressures of a different kind, especially for those whose homes were damaged. The important things of yesterday—getting Jack’s Laptop, what to buy Uncle H, mailing baby Ali’s gift—suddenly seemed insignificant. In a surreal way, in spite of (or maybe, because of) the tension of the unknown and the additional financial burdens people talked of, I sensed that most were enjoying this camaraderie blown in by the wind. A community of strangers quickly formed in times of need, but, I wonder, how quickly forgotten.