Aftermath

I’ve spent all the summers of my life so far in a little town on the Jersey Shore on what I now know is a barrier island.  My mom’s house is situated half way between the ocean and the bay on a three block wide piece of land.  For forty-something years I’ve felt a seismic shift in my consciousness and physical being when I smell the salt air, and I roll down my windows when I get close to the beach, even in the rain. 

On this recent visit to my summer home town, I was stopped by a National Guardsman in grey fatigues standing next to a matching fatigue-painted Hummer.  He reminded me of Madeline Kahn in High Anxiety when her pantsuit matched her Lincoln Continental.  He asked to see my papers—a copy of a tax document and a letter from my mother saying I had her permission to visit the house.  He checked my ID and waved me on. 

As I drove down familiar streets, nearly every house or business on both sides of the road had an 8-12 foot mountain of refuse on the curb consisted of all the major appliances, couches and cabinetry, rugs and flooring, all the contents from the basement, the insulation, and all the walls from the first floor of the house.  Except for my mom’s house. 

Friends had texted me photos of my mom’s house after the storm—friends who’d siphoned gasoline from one car into the other and braved the ominous smell of broken gas lines to survey the town before the National Guard declared Marshall Law and instilled a curfew to deter looters-- who were stealing by truck in the day and by boat at night.  Before the cacophony of dump trucks and helicopters grew to drown out the gently lapping waves at the beach; before homeowners 10 blocks south of us returned to their houses to find them gone—vanished-- just an empty lot of sand-- my friends let me know that my mom’s house was okay.  A good 7 steps up to the first floor porch, we had cleared the 4-foot flood-line by about 15 inches.

But I still had to see for myself.  The basement and garage would be a shitshow.  So once the gas rationing calmed the frenzied masses, I filled my car with cleaning supplies-- and donations for relief workers-- and headed down.  Mom’s house was fine.  I was overwhelmed with a mixture of gratitude and survivor guilt.  Yes, she would need a new furnace, water heater, electric panel and air-conditioning unit, but we were lucky-- very lucky.  As the town whirled with the buzz of construction workers and generators, I worked all day by myself to empty the basement.  A construction worker named, Bob,-- wearing leather gloves and rubber boots-- swung by to pump out the last 8” of water from the basement.  Around me men were doing similar jobs.  Strong, virile men were hooking up dehumidifier ducts as big as hoola-hoops.  They lifted great gobs of sodden insulation with front loaders while other men hacked at walls and floors with crowbars.  This must have been what it was like when gold mining towns were being built, or Las Vegas.  There was a barn raising feeling to the town now, everyone working at a common goal to get the community back on its feet—and I could sense us sweating together as I peeled off layers of clothing.  But as dusk turned the blue sky pink, an odd thing happened. 

All around me people had lost so much.  Their hearts ached.  They were exhausted and worn.  And yet, as the generators switched off and construction workers removed their gloves, all I could think of was---who can I make out with? 

I was aware of how wrong this was, this feeling of surging desire, but I couldn’t contain it.  “Maybe Construction Bob will make out with me,” I thought, as I ambled over to my car to check my hair in the side view mirror.  I may have been wearing rain pants over my jeans, snow boots and 2fleece tops, but I rocked it.

When his truck pulled up, the sky had darkened to denim blue.  No street lights had power, no cars could be heard and the air was perfectly still.  Curfew was in an hour.  “There’s time,” I thought.  And yet, Construction Bob did not linger long enough to let the post-apocalyptic aphrodisiac grip him and propel him towards me.  He did not seem to share my yearning to connect with someone on a deep, primal level.  He loaded his pump and left.  And with him went the only chance I would have to feel the skin of someone who knows what it’s like-- to be alone together on the outskirts of surreality.  Remote, removed and alive.

After he left I stood there for a few minutes.  Now I would have no one to make out with.   Then I remembered, I would still have to pass through the National Guard’s checkpoint on my way out of town.  You know what they say-- any port in an aftermath.

Restoring the Shore

I took my son and some friends and their kids to Jenkinson’s Amusement Park in Point Pleasant, NJ, a few weeks ago.  I cautioned everyone that we may only find the arcades open but, to my delight, I was wrong.  The whole boardwalk was up and running at full steam.  The roller coaster, bumper cars and endlessly looping Himalayan were all ready to rock.  The swings took my son and his friend high into the air as they sat in those little seats, gripping the chains that held them up.  They giggled as they flew in circles over a ring of flip-flops waiting patiently on the ground below them.  Toddlers and tykes were mesmerized by the docile boat and fire engine rides while excited tweens squealed over the upside down rides I still harbor leftover anxiety from, so many years later.

My son was most concerned about the water pistol games but they were up and running, too.  For 3 bucks he and his friend and I-- because you need at least 3 people to play-- aimed into our clowns’ mouths, pulled the trigger with steely determination and watched streams of water blow up our balloons.  The boys had made a pact going in that they would pick out a ball on the lowest prize shelf so that they could share it for the rest of the weekend, and when one of them won, they did. 

So, life was good on the boardwalk that day.  The wooden planks we had walked on for generations were replaced with some sort of recycled resin-type material that would reduce splinter angst for generations to come.  The arcades were humming, the hot oil was frying and my girlfriend and I celebrated the gorgeous weather and our Jersey shore weekend with a freshly made Belgian waffle topped with two scoops of ice cream.  Just for us moms.

Yesterday I had a different sort of day at the Jersey Shore when I drove down to check on my aunt’s house in Mantoloking,.  That’s the small town situated on 3 blocks of Barrier Island between the Atlantic Ocean and Barnegat Bay.  Most folks would like to think of Mantoloking as solely a bastion for wealthy folks’ spacious vacation homes, but that’s not the whole picture.  My aunt’s home is small by anyone’s terms.  A tiny bungalow, the only reason she has a living room is because my grandfather enclosed the one-car garage 40 years ago.  It’s cozy, lovely and it’s her primary residence—and it took on 4 feet of water after Sandy.             

A friend of my aunt’s owned a grand behemoth of a turn-of-the-century shore house.  The surge wave that breached the dunes took the first floor out from under the 2^nd and 3^rd and left them on the ground like a magician’s tablecloth trick.  Other neighbors came back to check on their houses only to fine that they were gone—wiped off the map.  Of the 521 homes in town, over 200 were destroyed or disappeared.  All of them were damaged.  Some were inherited, yes, and some were fancy, but everyone had worked hard to maintain them—some for generations.  To say that a wealthy person’s loss is negligible would be like telling a parent who lost a child, “At least you still have other kids.”  Loss is loss—unique and valid to everyone who suffers.  Mantoloking still has a way to go.

Some of the aged retired folks in town have had no other recourse than to walk away, their houses still split in half, roofs and walls torn off by the wind.  Piles of rubble still dot the landscape like war photos and eerie plots of sand provide new and unexpected views to landscapes no one ever expected to see-- monuments to the storm.  Most homeowners have been rendered catatonic by the decisions they face— keep or sell, tear it down or fix it up, raise it 6, 8, now 11 feet above sea level or take the risk and leave it be.   What to do?  My aunt still doesn’t know.

But it’s come along way, believe it or not.  One of the streets I turned down became an inlet the night of the storm, connecting ocean to bay and taking several homes with it.  Friends had had to row a boat across to check on their houses after the storm, but it was filled in now, good as new.  I drove past an older woman standing in her yard, her damaged house sagging behind her, wearing work gloves.  She was stone-still, staring ahead just feet from the road.  When she caught my eye, I said, “Hang in there.”  I didn’t know what else to say.

The town is coming back, slowly but surely, like other towns up and down the New York and New Jersey coast.  Townspeople, working together with FEMA, have done an amazing job re-securing basic utilities, moving the sand back to the sea, and keeping morale high and information flowing.   The beaches are open and still beautiful, the fries are still greasy, and the boardwalks’ betting wheels are spinning just for you.  Boutiques, surf shops and cafes are open.  Mini-golf is waiting.  The shore is being restored.  Get down there. 

Storm Concert

Sandy started out the way rock concerts do, thousands of people all looking forward to the same event, giddy with anticipation, a unified base of excited fans.  Hurricane preparations reminded me of the Springsteen tailgate I enjoyed only weeks before.  Coolers were readied; I donned warm comfortable clothes.  Focused on the same event that night, throngs of us were excited about the experience, fairly sure of the outcome.  As the tiny spec of Bruce leaned into the mic, his heart beat with ours to every familiar lyric.  From far away I looked down at a sea of bodies jumping and swaying below, arms fist-pumping to songs that united us--  a single-minded organism of nostalgic desire, craving our youth.  We owned these songs and they informed who we became.  We were a community that night.  There was no downside to the concert, no aftermath, only a happy shared memory between many hungry hearts.  

A few weeks later, millions braced themselves for the next shared experience.  Sandy united us again, giddy with anticipation.  As the media frothed I was proud of my calm preparedness.  I filled coolers with ice and readied warm comfortable clothes.  It was exciting and I was focused and ready.  I felt fairly sure of the outcome.  My son and I welcomed the power outage as one does an uninvited yet inevitable guest and lit burned candles around the house, giving our home a campfire glow.  We wore our headlamps and listened to seventies rock on the radio.  This was fun, I told my son.  And it was for a while.  Then the storm leaned in and with each downed tree and terrifying swell, my heart beat faster with responsibility and uncertainly.  There was no carload chorus of smiling singing friends to back me in this, I was alone with my son in the storm and my choices were my own. 

With every fierce and yowling gust of wind and beating rain, I perked up to the voice in my head whispering that this storm was not like the others.  Although I’d been riding out hurricanes on the Jersey Shore since childhood, my confidence eroded.  I wedged couch cushions against the windows.  I moved the bed downstairs.  But I wasn’t in this alone, not really.  Friends texted and I read their threads as they moved their families to the basement and strapped on bike helmets, just in case.  I welcomed their senses of humor.  One friend reminded me to breathe.  The texting continued until—one by one—their phone batteries ran out.  But we were in this together, I thought, as I extinguished the candles.  This knowledge calmed me and somehow I slept. 

Tuesday morning our shared experience splintered into thousands of stories—some brimming with luck and some ravaged with misfortune.  I was one of the lucky ones, in too many ways to count.  Friends with power offered my son and me a guest room and I accepted.  My mother found safety, solace and Boggle with her sisters.  Her beach house was unscathed, but information was scant.  Then as the days passed without power, a new normal emerged.  Talk of hot showers and thawing food supplanted jabber about soccer games and carpools.  Schedules dissipated and time slowed.  Rumors of devastation crept in.  One family with power opened their home to ten families without.  A makeshift commune blossomed of group meals and kids’ camp games, charging stations and workspaces.  For a week I experienced peoples’ abundant generosity and heard of others’ hoarding and panic.  As new routines and basic needs were secured, more and more distant friends stopped by and checked in to make sure my son and I were okay.  We joked about wearing the same clothes for days and listened to stories of midnight gasoline forays.  Then the homeowners went on vacation, gave out keys and incredibly, let the commune stay. 

It’s true that we have many selves, reserves of personalities to draw upon befitting the times.  We have a storm self, a vacation self, a weekend self and more.  Some of my friends had beach houses devastated by the storm, bastions of golden nostalgia, faded by the summer sun.  Their hearts and houses were wrenched from their foundations last week.  Their crisis selves emerged.  They were unified with their neighbors by shock and disbelief.  But friends and strangers rallied like angels.  They sighed then reached down to pulled up the floors. 

We’ve all shared this storm.  It’s now part of who we are.  Some neighborhood relationships brightened with the warmth of shared generators and community meals while others drew a cold breath, preferring to eat and sleep alone.  But community was there for the taking, for those who craved it, they didn’t have to look far.  Resilience, tenacity and a sense of humor kept us going; it keeps me going even now.  We own this storm and it will inform us—like it or not-- as we continue to evolve.  It has dared us to laugh and brought some to tears.  It has amplified who we are at our cores; it has carved a notch in our souls -- like a song that gets under our skin and becomes part of who we are.