This is how I spent my Hurricane Weekend:
On Saturday, representing the Marlin Clan of Edinburgh and Pennsylvania (Huguenots who emigrated to Scotland in 1548), Yours Truly attended The Scottish Games on Long Island.
Yes, those are the storm clouds of Irene.
But what do I care????
As it was said (all over the Games): We Scots Eat Hurricanes For Breakfast.
And Lordy, there is nothing so enticing as a man in a kilt. (I keep dragging Top Cat to these Scottish gatherings in the hopes that one day he will agree to wear the kilt of the MacMarlins.)
I mean, seriously. If 85-year-old Mario Suriano of Calabria (see below, left) can become an honorary Scot Angus of Mac Suriano then my Son of Avram Top Cat-Stein can become an honorary James des Marlinos. Hey: a girl can dream.
Oh, well. I didn’t come home with a man in a kilt, but I did come home with my new cape.
(The Scottish Saltire is the oldest flag in continuous use in the world.)
Oh wait. It’s not the annual gathering of the New York clans that was foremost in the news this weekend, eh? Oh, right. That it was that pesky rain storm Irene.
Oh, right. Hurricane Irene.
This is my first ever attempt at taping my [any] picture window against hurricane-force winds.
Good thing Top Cat was in charge of hunting and gathering vital provisions for our bunker:
2 bottles of cheap champagne (my fave), two bottles of 2005 Bordeaux reds, two packets of tea biscuits, an angel food cake, 1.5 quarts of vanilla ice cream, and 24 Klondike bars.
And for a romantic Saturday Eve of Hurricane dinner, what more could you want for your Impending Doom Dinner but Homemade Macaroni and Cheese?
And then it started to rain with a vengeance. Of course, I could not coax my bad boy backyard feral cats indoors. This is me, hanging out my back door, trying to cajole Bibs to come bring his ass in out of the rain:
So we got drunk and went to bed and slept through the debacle. When we woke the next morning, it was still grey and rainy and so very windy. In fact, it was the sound of the wind/well, not exactly the sound of the wind but the sound of the wind’s relentless moaning and roaring effect on the goddamn trees that obliterate the horizon in all directions everywhere in my world/ that really got on my nerves. So I stayed inside and soldiered through the various power outages all the live long day, thinking that Hey–this hurricane stuff isn’t all it’s cracked up to be after all.
Because I did not see for myself, until the next day, how narrowly we missed having a totally awful hurricane experience. Because this is what the house next door looked like:
That’s not a hedge in the middle of the drive way. That’s the top of a tree that collapsed across the yard…
…just barely missing the side of the house:
This is the tree…
…that did not bring down the power lines to the house right in back of us.
Our neighbors up the road also had a close call:
And the historic district of our beloved village also managed to escape destruction by the very smallest [insert some measure of really, really fine distinction]:
(The red house on the right is the oldest house in all of Long Island, having been built by some Dutch guy in1645. The pretty blue house is also old but is from the mid-1800s and I forget why it is famous, but trust me: it’s another big deal in the architecural heritage of Nassau County, Long Island.)
Top Cat and I wandered further afield and saw how broken telephone poles are repaired:
(That guy in the blue shirt is one second away from teling me and Top Cat to get the hell out of their way.)
And in case you’re wondering, this is how our Bibs and our patio looked The Day After (Irene):
All we got was a bunch of downed leaves.
Yes: Bibs and all the fierce feral backyard cats survived Hurricane Irene, lived to mooch anther lifetime of three square meals a day.
Here at Feral Cat Mansion, All Is Well.
So have a happy holiday weekend, everyone. Meet me here on Friday, Sept. 9 for the inauguration of my fifth year of Making Mountains Out Of Molehills with all the fabulous gallery of Pictures That Make Us Happy. Thank you, everyone, who sent me your moments of bliss to share with the few the proud, the cognoscenti who read this totally irrelevant blog.
Merci mille fois.