Still Standing, Dean-oh . . .

I glanced down at my fingernails as I flicked the mosquito from my ankle. The thin line of black grit confirmed the fact that we'd been without running water, neither hot nor cold, for two days.

Some parts of your body just don't get clean when you pour a bucket of water over your head.

The National Hurricane Center website had me whipped into a frenzied cocktail of dread and anticipation, stirred with a shot of excitement, on the rocks, for two days. Would we be flattened like a bald tire that struck a pot-hole on Spur Tree? Would we be able to see the seashore through leaf-less trees from Norman Manley Boulevard? And just how long would the 15 litres of bottled water keep us happy?

Fifteen litres of chardonnay may have been a more prescient plan of action.

We'd packed our belongings back into our luggage, many things in two or three layers of plastic lada bags or my month's supply of ziplocs, and moved to higher ground. That sounds like a torturous trek but really meant moving ourselves 30 yards to a second-story room in a cottage with a concrete roof. Our current cottage had a heavy corrugated metal roof, much heftier than the ubiquitous zinc of your standard board house, but nonetheless more vulnerable than concrete. So we moved 90 feet closer to the sea, but with a roof that could withstand a fallen mango tree.

And we piled into the one-room cottage, 4 of us sprawled out on to the two twin beds pushed together. We left the cottage door open as long as we dared -- well past 10pm, as the trees began to swirl in the darkness and the occasional branch flew across the arc of the verandah which was lit by candles. Er, uh, "kangles." We'd stockpiled drinking water, purchased excessive packages of crackers, jars of peanut butter and a few pounds of rice and dried beans, not to mention a brand-new coal pot and requisite 4-foot tall sack of coal to see us through the horror.

The horror that never came.

Our room grew warm and stuffy as the night wore on. No fan, let alone A/C, and we kept the shuttered windows closed as the wind grew more turbulent and we silently steamed ourselves to sleep. But only a 10-year old could find sleep without dreams, without worry. The rest of us tossed and turned, elbowing one another through the night, waiting for the howling thunder of hurricane winds.

It soon became clear that the loudest thunder we were going to hear was that of the groaning generator for the hotel next door. The Italian tourists at "Fun Holiday" would not be forced to experience Hurricane Dean in the dark. All things considered, I would have preferred the growl of a hurricane; it was like sleeping with a lawn mower circling your pillow.

When daylight finally arrived, we realized we'd actually fallen asleep at some point, that the tree frogs' gleep-gleeping had gradually yielded to the birds' chirp-chirping and that a storm surge had not washed us all out to sea. We pulled open the door to our cottage to take a look outside. Much like Dorothy slowly easing open the black-and-white door of her Kansas farm house, we hoped for a technicolor landscape left intact and not a wasteland of barren trees.

And they were all indeed still standing.

A smattering of mangoes and almonds littered the leafy ground, branches of assorted fruit trees and bamboo stalks lay streaked across the walkways, but the Whistling Bird remained relatively unscathed. The "electric city" had been cut before the storm overtook Westmoreland and the water in the pipes grew to a slow trickle by afternoon, a full stop by the middle of the night.

And we began our short-lived, camping-trip version of our vacation, cooking over a fire and bathing with a bucket of cold water poured over our heads.

I wonder how my fingernails would have looked if Dean had really knocked on our door, eeennnh?

Palm Tree No. 4
Pen and ink on paper
Prints available here.

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We Took Granny Meg to Jamaica

Well, she wasn't a grandmother at the time, only a prospective mother-in-law. And ever since she's returned, she's spotting Jamaicans everywhere. She's become a veritable "bredren magnet." To hear her tell it, Connecticut has become "Little Kingston." It's rather sweet, actually.

From the work crew who waterproofed her basement to the gentlemen who replaced the gutters on her roof, she always spots a Jamaican in the bunch. And pops the question: "Are YOU from Jamaica?" she'll ask. And then she's off, talking about her son-in-law and her beautiful granddaughters and her own visits to the island. They, in turn, are typically dumbstruck, but delighted to hear her story.

There is occasionally, however, that one Lost-in-Translation moment.

Granny Meg owns a small summer home on the coast of Maine, a cozy cottage nestled in a pine grove, just a stone's throw from the ocean. Popham Beach has been our summer getaway since the early 1960s and it hasn't changed much over the past 40 years. Hell, it hasn't changed much since the turn of the century.

There is one paved road into town which dissolves into a dusty dirt road as it approaches the coastline and winds through the pine trees. There is one restaurant, Spinney's Seafood, one general store, Percy's, which now also serves fried clams and burgers; and one post office, one library, and that's about it. Oh, and the remnants of Fort Popham, at the mouth of the Kennebec, where the river spills into the Atlantic Ocean.

The beach is huge, one leg of it hugs the roiling Kennebec River, and then makes a 90 degree turn at The Point, where it then receives the waves of the Atlantic. My husband calls it an "original beach." Often strewn with driftwood, it is huge, typically quite empty, and offers spectacular views across the bay and to outlying islands. The water is a deep dark blue, like the darkest blue crayon in the coloring box.

And in the 40-odd years we've vacationed at Popham Beach, I have never seen a black person. Not ever.

But Granny Meg IS the bredren magnet. And when she stepped out of Spinney's one crisp fall day, she was only somewhat surprised to spot two large black men, both sporting huge, red-gold-&-green knitted tams, standing in front of Percy's General Store. They were eating ice cream cones and taking in the view.

Now, Granny Meg is a tiny woman. She used to be  5'6" but is now about 5'4" and weighs only about 95 pounds. She keeps her white hair cut short, has icy-blue eyes, and always walks with a quick, determined gait. Spry is the word that comes to mind. And when she spotted what she knew to be the tell-tale sign of a potential Jamaican, the tam bulging with dreadlocks, and in his majesty's color palette, she made a beeline for the two men.

"One was old, grey and grizzled," recalled Granny Meg, adding "but the other was quite good looking!" As she approached the two she waved and said, "Good Morning!" I imagine the two dreads glanced over their shoulder to see who this little sparrow of a woman might be talking to. Finding themselves standing all alone in front of Percy's, they realized this almost-ancient-tiny white lady was speaking to them.

"Marnin'," one of them answered. They continued to lick their blueberry ice cream cones, inspecting her with suspicious curiosity.

"Are you two Ra-stahs?" she asked, pronouncing it much like you would say ratchet, or raspberry, a loong drawn out raaaa-sta. They blinked, staring at her, dumbstruck.

"Yah mon, how you know wi a rasta?" the older one asked.

"Well, I could tell by your hats, of course," smiled Granny Meg. I'm certain the bredren were not particularly pleased to be recognized as rastafari simply by their choice of headgear, rather than, for example, their intrinsic oneness with the Most-High.

"My son-in-law is a rasta from Jamaica," she continued, "He and my daughter and their beautiful little girls live in New York City."

"New York City is a very bad place," the younger one said, still not quite believing they were even having this conversation.

"Why are you here in Popham?" asked Granny Meg.

"Wi come fi look 'pon de sea," answered the elder, which made perfect sense. There couldn't be a sea more different from the caribbean than the rich dark waters of the Atlantic off the coast of Maine.

"Well, do you live and work here in Maine?" asked Granny Meg, delighted to have made two more new Jamaican friends.

"Yah mon, we work wid de opper," said the younger man.

Well, now it was Granny Meg's turn to be dumbstruck.

"The opera?" she repeated. Or, at least, thought she repeated. "Well, hmmm, do you both sing?"

The bredren paused for a moment, exchanging glances. One of them shrugged, and said, "yah mon, sometime we sing."

Granny Meg was intrigued but perplexed. She'd frankly never heard of an opera company in Maine, let alone one that might have singing roles for Jamaican dreadlocks.

"Well, uhh, what else do you do with the opera?" she asked.

The elder looked at her and spoke slowly, as if to someone who might not be altogether right in the head and said, "When di opper ripe, we pick dem offa da tree."

Granny Meg, you are priceless..............

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