Henri may be perfect storm for COVID era

Last week I heard the word “hurricane” echoing around the edges of my attention, and when I finally checked the forecast, I saw that a hurricane was indeed approaching. Last year immediately came to mind, and thoughts of Isaias resurfaced. They were not pleasant thoughts, as we were without power for several days. My son and I did have fun watching that one tree blow down on our driveway, though. That was pretty exciting.

My wife’s memories of last August’s storm were, if anything, worse than mine, so she urged me to see about getting a portable generator before the storm hit. As a former hardware store clerk, I always like shopping for tools and machines, so I set off to procure a generator.

Once at the local home improvement store, I headed off to the big machines side and found the aisle blocked by yellow signs and a big forklift sort of contraption. Apparently (and unsurprisingly), I was not the only person thinking about power outages.

The guy in front of me in line for the generators started chatting. We shared stories of power outages past: Irene, Isaias, Sandy, that weird Halloween blizzard. Oh, and remember that tornado that touched down? Anyone listening in would have thought we actually enjoyed these weather disasters.

We finally ran out of storm stories to share, because getting generators down from the high shelves was quite a complex procedure. Eventually I got mine, and he got his two (he was buying one for his son), and we went our separate ways.

When I got back home, I unloaded the generator and put it together. It didn’t require much — I just had to attach the wheels and put oil in the crankcase. My son for once didn’t want to watch, and I realized that all the hurricane talk had him agitated. Since the storm last year, he has had a strange fascination with — and fear of — trees falling. On the one hand, he is terribly worried that the dogs or I will be crushed by a falling tree. On the other, it was kind of fun to watch that one crashing down across the driveway.

On Sunday morning, even before he ate his waffles, he had to ask me if the hurricane had hit. I told him the track had shifted, and now it looked like we would be on the far western edge of things. We would get rain, but we would probably be spared the worst.

So, we began our watch. When I got up at 6 a.m. with the dogs, I noticed how still it was, the proverbial calm before the storm. After my son and I started watching a couple of hours later, there was still little more than a whisper of wind.

Eventually, the watch became boring, and my son wandered off to read. I soon followed with my own book, but I kept sneaking looks at the radar app on my phone.

There is probably a word that describes this buildup of expectations that falls flat, and if I ever figure out what it is, I know I will have plenty of opportunity to use it. The past year and a half has been one long exercise in thwarted anxiety.

Almost every stage of the pandemic has been fraught with worries about worsening conditions delicately balanced with hopes of improvement. Should I be happy that the worst case didn’t happen or upset that the best case also failed to materialize?

For now I’ll sit here and wait, knowing that I’m ready for anything, vaccine card in a drawer and generator in the garage.