Light On Dark Water

After the Storm

We missed the worst of Hurricane Ivan, or rather it missed us.
The storm did weaken somewhat before it made landfall, but was
still a worse-than-average hurricane. We went to bed on Tuesday
night having made the decision to flee inland if the storm did
not significantly weaken or change direction overnight. It
didn’t, and we did, heading eighty miles or so inland to
Thomasville, where my brother-in-law and his family live.

I’m always a little surprised at the readiness of family
members to come to each other’s aid when it really counts.
The way my wife put it to me was that she had called her brother
and “told them we might be coming,” as if there were
no question that they would be willing to have us—if not to
welcome us actively, then at least to accept us in the emergency.
In the event we were in fact warmly welcomed although we were
extremely inconvenient, being five people, two dogs, and a cat.
We drove up on Wednesday morning, taking back roads to avoid the
congested interstate, and left a couple of days later, deeply
grateful and feeling that we really ought to see them more
often.

Home is the place where, when you have to go there
They have to take you in.

I heard that cynical but true line from Robert Frost’s
“The Death of the Hired Man” long before I read the
poem. The line is spoken by the husband of a farm couple
discussing whether they should take in a former hand who
“has come home to die,” as the wife
says—whether they should be to him as his actual family, in
the person of a rich brother, is not. It was much later that I
read the warmer and wiser response of the farmer’s
wife:

I should have called it
Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.

Both together make, to me, as vivid a nutshell summary as any
I know of what family really means: a tie deeper than mere
affection, a bond of obligation so potent as to outweigh most
others. In using the word “home” the wife is making
the hired man part of the family, in effect adopting him. Read
the poem, if you don’t know it; it is one of Frost’s
masterpieces.

We were lucky, or blessed, or both. The storm took a
last-minute turn to the east, with the result that instead of
being on the fiercer east side of the system our house was in the
middle, with the eye passing directly over it. The house suffered
minor damage in the form of a hole in the roof which ruined the
ceiling and a few expendable furnishings in a bedroom, but it
will be easily repaired. Thirty miles or so to the south and the
east it was another story; there is devastation on the coast and
as much as fifty miles inland. The downed trees must number in
the thousands; everywhere you go there are huge piles of debris
piled beside the street, containing everything from leaves to
eighteen-inch logs. This area will feel the effects for years to
come.

The power of these storms is almost inconceivable. There is a
half-remembered line from the Bible floating around in my mind,
something to the effect that if the Lord did not stay his hand no
flesh would live. As the old routine re-forms around the
obstacles—power outages, cleanup, and the like—I
think of how much we owe, at all times, to mercy.