It's that the Olympics remind us that we can aspire to something, and that sometimes, we can succeed, gloriously, as an individual, or as a group, a team, a nation. It's drama, and triumph and heartbreak. It's a timeout for peace, a putting on the ritz, a best foot forward, an idealized world. It's good for us to spend some time being post-jaded and wide-eyed, for our hearts to beat faster in empathy, or sympathy, or even envy.
The real world is so gritty. For most people life is generally sheer drudgery punctuated with tragedy with only intermittent moments of joy. I think we live for those fleeting hours of occasional synchronicity when all is right with our piece of the world, or when we accomplish something, or create something. And that is part of what the Olympics is about. It shows us we can reach for something better and have a hope of reaching it.
The other thing the Olympics does is remind us that we are not so different, nation to nation, as we think we are. A man from Kenya runs alongside a man from Morocco, and they share a bottle of water as they vie for the gold medal in the final event, the men's marathon. Just a couple of guys, well sort of. Except that they can both run for twenty six miles faster than I can really run across the yard. And later, on the podium, the Moroccan looked like a kind fellow,a bit bewildered, overwhelmed by the crowd, courteous to the presenter. Just a nice young man. Maybe a little foreign, but human, some kind of kin.
Chinese girls fell off the beam just like American ones did, and our hearts stopped for each of them. Frenchmen and Jamaicans and Brits showed glimpses of 'inappropriate' bravado -- young warriors strutting their stuff, reveling. Ubiquitous volunteers had learned a smattering of English and stood smiling and justifiably proud and ready to help.
I love the Olympics. From the events themselves, to the pageantry and showmanship and technology and the spectacle of it all. Including the tv commercials. Thanks all you who put it on every four years. It makes me really happy.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
Severe Weather Watch
It's tornado season in Iowa.
My husband, who among many other things is a trained Storm Spotter, is buzzing around the house at four o'clock on a Friday morning getting ready to go to work at his job with our local radio station. He's normally pretty quiet during his pre-dawn ablutions, but he seems to feel a certain instability in the atmosphere this day and his tension wakes me up.
Then the severe weather warning radio goes off at my bedside with it's loud automated voice listing the counties under a severe thunderstorm watch. "... for Warren County, Marion County, Mahaska County..." it drones and I unplug the damn thing. It might wake up the kids, and we all need a couple more hours of sleep. Besides, a thunderstorm isn't worth getting up for. I'll not be out in it and Bob will be out in it no matter what. He loves driving around in his little red truck, chasing the storms and calling in to report "live on the air with Dr. Bob."
After he leaves, I lie awake and listen to the rain, planning the day ahead, hoping the basement doesn't leak too much. It's Friday, the day before the annual double birthday party for the kids, and I have a long list of cooking and chores to accomplish before I have to go in to do my shift as the floor manager of a local restaurant.
I'm just dozing off again when the phone rings! It's the radio station, and Bob's not there yet but they're going into SWAT mode (Severe Weather Action Team). "He's on his way," I tell Alex, he must be around Attica by now, and we don't really get cell service there."
I'm manoevering around in the darkened house after hanging up the phone, when suddenly the electricity goes out and in the absence of the collective mechanical hum of my household I can hear the storm intensifying outside.
I only have time for a fleeting thought before my cell phone rings and Bob's yelling through the noise of the wind on his end, "Get the kids to the basement! Get to the basement now!"
That means a tornado's headed our way. I run and wake up the children, Asa who is 7 and Johanna, 4, and our family discussions of tornado precautions pay off. There's very little whining and we hurry down the stairs to the cool, windowless basement guest room. I snuggle the kids on the sofa there under a big blanket and tell them not to be afraid. I fetch a single candle and light it so they won't be afraid of the dark.
Through the doorway to the next room I can see out the west-facing window of the walkout part of the basement and the world outside is just becoming visible with the dawn. It looks like a heavy fog has suddenly dropped down on us, white and blowing. I listen for the freight-train roar people have talked about hearing during tornadoes, but I only hear a heavy wind. I fret about the dogs who are outside in their dogrun, should I get them inside to safety?
But before I can make up my mind, the storm lessens, and I decide it's safe to check outside. I leave the kids in the underground room and run upstairs. I look out the front window at the retreating storm. The sun is just coming up, and in the light of the new day I see that the unoccupied mobile home across the highway from us has been turned over like a child's block and is resting on its roof. I grab my cellphone and call Bob to tell him we're fine but out of power and that Jim and Jan's trailer is knocked down. He tell's me Attica was hit pretty bad, that they don't know if it was a tornado or straight line winds, and that he's headed there now.
Feeling extremely grateful, I put the kids back to bed for another hour or so of sleep before what was going to be a long day for everyone. Later when I drove Asa to his second to last day of school, we're amazed at the amount of storm damage we see along the way. Then we come to a detour because the twisted remains of a metal silo is blocking the highway like a huge car wreck. Telephone poles are snapped like matchsticks, their lines draping at crazy angles, which explains the no electricity. Trees are laying uprooted or are missing entirely.
Duly impressed with the power of Mother Nature, I go about my business, drop Asa off, shop for groceries, stare gloomily at the flickering numbers on the gas pump as I fill up the SUV that once seemed like such a great idea. I worry about how I'll ever get everything done before 2 pm tomorrow. On the way home, the road is still closed, and I'm rerouted around Attica, where I heard the worst damage had been sustained. Along the way I see several groups of utility workers, some of them from other communities, as they try to get the lines back up and running. I'm reminded of the hard work they all put in last winter in the aftermath of the ice storm that left some people without power for more than a week.
I wait most of the day for my electricity to be turned back on, and rejoice when it does. I manage to get the base for two kinds of homemade ice cream finished before I have to leave for work. Maybe the party won't be such a disaster after all.
By now the highway is reopened and for the first time I'm able to get a sense of the damage. I'm no weather expert, but what struck Attica must have been a tornado! Twisted bits of metal litter the sides of the road and lie in the fields like the carcasses of futuristic livestock. Roofs have been torn apart like carboard boxes, and one home has lost only its skirting. A beautiful decades-old lilac hedge that had just finished blooming the week before is completely obliterated. Lines of windbreak trees are down like rows of toy soldiers knocked over by a child's careless swipe.
I am completely stunned. To see such devastation in person rather than on the evening news carries with it an entirely different force. The foundation of my world has been shaken. This could have been us. This almost was us. This happened to my neighbors. This happened on the road I take every day. This happened just after my husband drove past. This is real.
And as my first shock wears off, I notice something else. Every driveway I pass is unusually full of vehicles. The yards are full of people. Then it dawns on me. This is our community showing its true colors. This could have been me they said, but it was you, so I will help you.
People have come in their pickups to haul away debris. People have brought boxes to hold recovered valuables and are patiently sifting through the wreckage. People are bringing lumber to repair roofs or to board up broken windows. People are opening community centers and serving food to the victims and the volunteers.
It's a demonstration of the kind of no-nonsense Midwestern altruism that even after three years here, still takes me by surprise. I've gotten used to the fact that most of the people I know volunteer for some cause or another in addition to their full time jobs or busy retirements. But this instantaneus and apparently spontaneous outpouring of community support gives me a humbling faith in the potential for good in the true heart of the human race.
These are our neighbors, and we will stand together.
My husband, who among many other things is a trained Storm Spotter, is buzzing around the house at four o'clock on a Friday morning getting ready to go to work at his job with our local radio station. He's normally pretty quiet during his pre-dawn ablutions, but he seems to feel a certain instability in the atmosphere this day and his tension wakes me up.
Then the severe weather warning radio goes off at my bedside with it's loud automated voice listing the counties under a severe thunderstorm watch. "... for Warren County, Marion County, Mahaska County..." it drones and I unplug the damn thing. It might wake up the kids, and we all need a couple more hours of sleep. Besides, a thunderstorm isn't worth getting up for. I'll not be out in it and Bob will be out in it no matter what. He loves driving around in his little red truck, chasing the storms and calling in to report "live on the air with Dr. Bob."
After he leaves, I lie awake and listen to the rain, planning the day ahead, hoping the basement doesn't leak too much. It's Friday, the day before the annual double birthday party for the kids, and I have a long list of cooking and chores to accomplish before I have to go in to do my shift as the floor manager of a local restaurant.
I'm just dozing off again when the phone rings! It's the radio station, and Bob's not there yet but they're going into SWAT mode (Severe Weather Action Team). "He's on his way," I tell Alex, he must be around Attica by now, and we don't really get cell service there."
I'm manoevering around in the darkened house after hanging up the phone, when suddenly the electricity goes out and in the absence of the collective mechanical hum of my household I can hear the storm intensifying outside.
I only have time for a fleeting thought before my cell phone rings and Bob's yelling through the noise of the wind on his end, "Get the kids to the basement! Get to the basement now!"
That means a tornado's headed our way. I run and wake up the children, Asa who is 7 and Johanna, 4, and our family discussions of tornado precautions pay off. There's very little whining and we hurry down the stairs to the cool, windowless basement guest room. I snuggle the kids on the sofa there under a big blanket and tell them not to be afraid. I fetch a single candle and light it so they won't be afraid of the dark.
Through the doorway to the next room I can see out the west-facing window of the walkout part of the basement and the world outside is just becoming visible with the dawn. It looks like a heavy fog has suddenly dropped down on us, white and blowing. I listen for the freight-train roar people have talked about hearing during tornadoes, but I only hear a heavy wind. I fret about the dogs who are outside in their dogrun, should I get them inside to safety?
But before I can make up my mind, the storm lessens, and I decide it's safe to check outside. I leave the kids in the underground room and run upstairs. I look out the front window at the retreating storm. The sun is just coming up, and in the light of the new day I see that the unoccupied mobile home across the highway from us has been turned over like a child's block and is resting on its roof. I grab my cellphone and call Bob to tell him we're fine but out of power and that Jim and Jan's trailer is knocked down. He tell's me Attica was hit pretty bad, that they don't know if it was a tornado or straight line winds, and that he's headed there now.
Feeling extremely grateful, I put the kids back to bed for another hour or so of sleep before what was going to be a long day for everyone. Later when I drove Asa to his second to last day of school, we're amazed at the amount of storm damage we see along the way. Then we come to a detour because the twisted remains of a metal silo is blocking the highway like a huge car wreck. Telephone poles are snapped like matchsticks, their lines draping at crazy angles, which explains the no electricity. Trees are laying uprooted or are missing entirely.
Duly impressed with the power of Mother Nature, I go about my business, drop Asa off, shop for groceries, stare gloomily at the flickering numbers on the gas pump as I fill up the SUV that once seemed like such a great idea. I worry about how I'll ever get everything done before 2 pm tomorrow. On the way home, the road is still closed, and I'm rerouted around Attica, where I heard the worst damage had been sustained. Along the way I see several groups of utility workers, some of them from other communities, as they try to get the lines back up and running. I'm reminded of the hard work they all put in last winter in the aftermath of the ice storm that left some people without power for more than a week.
I wait most of the day for my electricity to be turned back on, and rejoice when it does. I manage to get the base for two kinds of homemade ice cream finished before I have to leave for work. Maybe the party won't be such a disaster after all.
By now the highway is reopened and for the first time I'm able to get a sense of the damage. I'm no weather expert, but what struck Attica must have been a tornado! Twisted bits of metal litter the sides of the road and lie in the fields like the carcasses of futuristic livestock. Roofs have been torn apart like carboard boxes, and one home has lost only its skirting. A beautiful decades-old lilac hedge that had just finished blooming the week before is completely obliterated. Lines of windbreak trees are down like rows of toy soldiers knocked over by a child's careless swipe.
I am completely stunned. To see such devastation in person rather than on the evening news carries with it an entirely different force. The foundation of my world has been shaken. This could have been us. This almost was us. This happened to my neighbors. This happened on the road I take every day. This happened just after my husband drove past. This is real.
And as my first shock wears off, I notice something else. Every driveway I pass is unusually full of vehicles. The yards are full of people. Then it dawns on me. This is our community showing its true colors. This could have been me they said, but it was you, so I will help you.
People have come in their pickups to haul away debris. People have brought boxes to hold recovered valuables and are patiently sifting through the wreckage. People are bringing lumber to repair roofs or to board up broken windows. People are opening community centers and serving food to the victims and the volunteers.
It's a demonstration of the kind of no-nonsense Midwestern altruism that even after three years here, still takes me by surprise. I've gotten used to the fact that most of the people I know volunteer for some cause or another in addition to their full time jobs or busy retirements. But this instantaneus and apparently spontaneous outpouring of community support gives me a humbling faith in the potential for good in the true heart of the human race.
These are our neighbors, and we will stand together.
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