I took a train to New York on Friday to see a show on Broadway, then returned to Connecticut and Mrs. T the next day. It was a tough call. Our New York apartment is a few blocks away from the highest point in Manhattan, while our place in Connecticut is tucked away in a wooded valley that is subject to power failures whenever the wind starts blowing branches off the trees. Still, it was my guess that Hurricane Irene might end up hitting New York harder, and come Sunday I was feeling increasingly sure that I’d done the right thing.
We got up first thing in the morning, drove to the nearest grocery store, and bought a trunkful of bottled water, staple foodstuffs, and spare batteries. The ants were already out in force, and we didn’t leave much on the shelves for the slugabed grasshoppers. That done, we spent the rest of the day watching The Weather Channel with mounting dismay. Late in the afternoon, my editors at The Wall Street Journal sent me an e-mail asking if I could file Friday’s drama column as quickly as possible, so I sat down, knocked out a review of the play I’d seen on Friday, and shipped it off via e-mail. Afterward Mrs. T and I watched an old movie, Tales of Manhattan, wondering as we did so what Monday would bring.
Now Monday has arrived, and we’re still wondering what to expect. I have two more shows to see in New York this weekend, and I hope I get to see them, but what matters now is that I’m with my beloved wife, waiting for the weather to catch up with us. Insofar as possible, we’ve made ourselves ready for life without electricity. No matter what horrors the next few days may hold in store, we’ll be together.