Wouldn't you know. We get through the hurricane with all our utilities intact. Then tonight as Pittsburgh launches a prayer toward the goal line on fourth and 11, the cable goes out. No internet, no TV, I catch the game's end in text on my cell phone. Silly. Of course, everything came back on right after Sunday Night Football ended.

Anyway, I wrote this earlier:


I think I understand Hurricane Katrina a little better now. It's certainly not because I suffered. I understand how the attitudes that caused such pain and suffering to occur could come about. It's hard work preparing for a hurricane, but beyond that it's mentally exhausting.

You're dealing with events beyond your control and your plans are just to mitigate the crisis you expect. In the end, your thoughts spiral down to confront your mortality. It faces you at every turn. It faces you when you realized the roads that might have been your last escape are clogged beyond hope. It faces you when you're hoarding water because water is life. It certainly faces you when you're waiting in the darkness.

Hurricanes are slow. It was what 36 hours before we understood what Katrina had done? Friday evening watching the clouds race by, I expected the big storm to start any minute. Minutes ticked by but only a slow increase in wind gusts and rain followed. It really made you question if this big storm was really coming.

Then darkness fell. The clouds were thick enough that you couldn't see anything above you. You could hear and feel the rain and wind. The trees swayed, but they weren't bowing like you'd expect. Time marched on but slowly. You go through your nightly routines. You inspect your 'secured' house. You wait.

Finally exhausted you collapse trying to sleep. It's a restless sleep. The first angry snap of a branch you're awake. Then silence. You doze, but the timbers creak. You start. You check the conditions. The trees seem to be protecting you. You can hear the howling wind up above, but down at the surface, it's just steady rain. The treetops shake violently for a second, but then stop. This doesn't feel like the storm you've been preparing for.

Eventually, you rest. At dawn, you get the first look at the skies again. Dark clouds everywhere, but now you can see them racing above the trees. There are strong winds up there, but still the trees seem to protect you. Here and there are gusts, but mostly the silent rain keeps falling. It's not the most impressive rain either. Spring storms in Texas are much more violent than this. The backyard sections that usually flood just have small streams in them. The only thing remarkable about it is that it doesn't stop. For hours. It doesn't stop.

Now, after forever, you've reached the outer bands again. The sun starts to creep out. There's small debris everywhere. For the first time in memory, there are no pine needles in the trees. They're all on the ground. Leaves and twigs and branches are everywhere. Still, there are few signs of violence. You've made it. You have power and water and gas and an intact house. It's like a weight has been lifted. Then you're exhausted all over again.

In your fatigue, you can't help wonder if it was all worth it. All that work and worry for nothing. There are others who are suffering, but they are far away. You feel for them, but you also know their preparations had meaning while yours did not. The relief and guilt and anger swirl inside you. Just let everyone know you and yours are all right. Then you can rest.

Rest brings some perspective. There's still much work to do. You have to clean up the mess. Check your neighborhood to see if anyone needs help. Then you can start undoing all that you did to prepare. That's it isn't it. All that work preparing spun you up to a fever pitch, but knowing it would have helped if not the worst, but the merely bad had happened, doesn't bring back your calm.

You know the reality that could happen. You just saw it in New Orleans. But what about a year from now when it's not so fresh. What about after a few more wasted preparations. When you see all that you do is merely creating more work for yourself to undo after another miss. First it's the little things that slide. Soon it's hard not to laugh at the busy work some people go through in preparation. Then when it finally comes to you, you wonder why this time you weren't ready when you knew better. You dodge a couple of bullets and suddenly you think you're immortal. Life has a way of correcting those misperceptions swiftly and painfully.

I hope I can hang on to that knowledge. I hope I can keep that which will help protect me and my family. I need to keep that fear that drives me to prepare or flee. I can't let the mental weight slow me down. Each bullet you dodge makes it harder, but we must keep our edge.

A little more rest and then maybe, maybe I can move on. I try to hold on to the thankfulness for all I still have and let go of the anger over 'wasted' effort. It's hard. We all have to do it.

We all clean up our yards now. We sweep our paths and break up the fallen tree limbs. Except for here and there, you'd hardly know anything happened. Soon we'll have gas and groceries and noise again. Life will go back to normal. Then we can start caring for our brothers and sisters who didn't dodge this bullet. Maybe then we can have perspective . . . at least until the next storm.