The Aftermath

Newsletter 2024-09-30

As you’ve noticed, we’ve had some weather lately. That’s a colloquialism to denote that the weather is bad, not merely that it exists. There will always be weather of some kind as long as there’s an atmosphere, although the day the earth doesn’t have an atmosphere will truly be the worst weather of all. The void of space is chilly. Bring a sweater. There weren’t many adverse effects from the hurricane around here. That’s not shocking since I live in Indiana, not the East Coast, even if we are on East Coast time. Somebody out there evidently thinks we’re in the path of Atlantic hurricanes. Otherwise, why would I be denied the glory that is the Central Time zone? I want prime time TV to start at 7 p.m. so I can hurry up and get to bed. In the aftermath of the hurricane, we ended up with a few days of rain. It was a relief. My oldest daughter got out of cross country practice, and I got out of watering my lawn. The silver lining of a major disaster that caused billions of dollars in damage was that it saved me a few minutes on chores. Our board game friends, Peter and Delilah, weren’t so lucky.

They were enroute to South Carolina for a long-planned trip when the worst of the flooding hit. Peter’s text messages sound like war dispatches, which isn’t ideal for a vacation. On the way there, he only occasionally had cell service—or electricity. He spent at least one night in a powerless hotel room. He sent another text while waiting in line for three hours at the sole gas stations with fuel in a hundred mile radius. At that point, I would have started walking home. Clearly, Indiana got off easy compared to many parts of America. I don’t live in those other parts. Until I hear Peter’s full story and somehow make it about me, you’ll have to settle for my mild Hoosier melodrama. Things are a little soggy here. Your thoughts and prayers are appreciated. Your cash donations, too.

We nearly weren’t spared. I woke up Friday morning to a string of dire weather alerts. Destructive straight-line winds were headed our way. That was good news for the extreme kite flying community but bad news for the rest of us. We don’t have any big trees left on our property, but we do have a twelve-foot-tall plastic skeleton. It’s not exactly rated for hurricanes. It’s barely certified for a stiff breeze, especially since we only installed part of its support base. It’s supposed to have four metal poles extending out diagonally to help hold it up. We could only fit one of them. The skeleton was too close to the porch and front stairs to accommodate the other three. By choosing that location, we seriously jeopardized the decorative mannequin’s structural integrity. In our defense, it looked cool there. We made the right call. For extra security, I used a twenty-five pound sandbag to weigh down the back corner of the base. I also lightly tethered the skeleton to a porch column like it was a disobedient dog that might run away. Surely those half-hearted preparations would make our plastic Halloween decoration survive the wrath of the weather gods. It’s a wonder I’m an English major and not a structural engineer. I should have stacked some old books on the base just to be safe.

The threatened winds didn’t come until late in the day. The kids were home from school by then. They had to cower under umbrellas at the bus stop to withstand the downpour but were otherwise unharmed. The gusts picked up as it got dark. I have enough personal experience to be afraid of straight line winds. They once knocked out power in my hometown for three days. That’s a long time to go without the internet. It’s a wonder I survived without anonymous strangers to make me angry. This time, the wind made ominous noises outside our house. Some of them sounded like a drunk guy blowing across the top of an empty beer bottle. Lola kept asking what that noise was, and I kept shrugging. I wasn’t going outside to investigate. That’s how people die in horror movies. The one thing we did check on was the skeleton. The kids and I kept an eye on him through the front window. Early in the gale, he started to tip. I expected him to topple over by the end of the night. I thought my weekend would be spent searching the neighborhood for broken plastic limbs. When I woke up the next morning, I rushed downstairs to assess the damage. I couldn’t have been more surprised.

The skeleton held. Like Old Glory flying amid bombs bursting in air, our undead friend stood firm to inspire us all. He was a little slanted, but the worst mother nature could muster hadn’t been enough to fully dislodge him. With a little effort, I tipped him back into a fully upright position. If he stayed put during the aftermath of a hurricane, he would never leave us. Still, I left his leash attached to the porch just in case he changed his mind. We all have our moments of weakness.

The pigs were less stoic through the hurricane fallout. Like me, they’re fair weather animals that don’t like being wet. The recent rain has driven them inside. They’re not happy about it. The rescue pig, Onyx, has rubbed his snout on just about everything we own. He’s particularly fascinated by my wife’s strategic stockpile of scented candles. If all the world’s candle factories were suddenly destroyed, we would have enough lavender wax on hand to keep our house smelling like purple flowers for the next century. Onyx pulled Lola’s laptop off the chair where she set it after work. Clearly he has a death wish. He’s been the most interested in anything with cushions, which is a considerably less dangerous path of exploration. He’s snoozed on every soft surface in the house, testing each one to determine the best possible spot for comfort. That’s a brand of science I can get behind. I love it when he naps on the couches. He looks adorable, and he can’t get into any trouble. We’re all at our best when we sleep.

Onyx ’s weather-inspired curiosity has been a bad influence on the other pigs. A few times, I’ve caught Onyx going up the first few steps on our grand wooden staircase. Each time, I swoop in to shoo him down. Our second floor has been pig-free for years. Gilly stopped going up there when I accidentally trimmed one of her hooves too short and she discovered it hurt when she clambered down. Onyx doesn’t have that negative experience. He’s close to discovering there’s an entire story of non-pig-proofed stuff to snout up a mere ten feet above. After watching Onyx, Gilly tried her luck at the stairs again. I’ve had to chase her off twice. She refused to be shown up by the newcomer. I suspect I will spend much of this winter like a goalie blocking pigs instead of pucks. Luckily, my computer is next to the staircase. It will be very hard for them to sneak by me. It doesn’t help that they’re the loudest animals on the planet. If they didn’t announce their shenanigans by oinking loudly while they do them, they might get away with something. Silent pigs could conquer the world.

The pigs’ transition from outdoor to indoor animals presented an opportunity. I’ve begun my annual fall tradition of desperately trying to save my yard. I closed off one side and planted grass seed. I covered it in hay and watered it everyday for a week. Then the rain rolled in, saving me the trouble. The precipitation has been a useful ally against the birds. It’s the only thing that keeps them away. Not long after I laid out the grass seed, my yard was overrun with swarms of sparrows. They’re essential for pest control, but they didn’t pay for that grass seed. Grazing is theft—unless it’s done by my pigs. I have to pay to feed them because they’re family.

I was fed up enough by the avian bandits that I ordered two owl decoys from Amazon. I set them up in the side yard and waited. At first, the birds stayed away. Then they swooped down and ate grass seed like before. What had actually temporarily spooked them was that I was outside setting up the owls, not the owls themselves. The fake birds were a waste of twenty dollars, unlike my fake giant skeleton, which was the best money I ever spent. I left the owls out there because I didn’t feel like returning them right away. Now, they’ve been outside through the aftermath of a hurricane. I have to imagine that voids the warranty. Going forward, if I want to keep the sparrows away, I’ll have to do it the old fashioned way by going outside every fifteen minutes and shouting at them like a crazy person. I’m up to the challenge. There’s nobody better at being irrationally angry at nature than me.

Despite the sparrows’ best efforts, there are finally some new sprouts of grass in the side yard. In a few weeks, I’ll rotate the pigs to that side of the property and try to save the other. There might not be much left of it by then. In between hurricane-driven rainstorms, the pigs still venture outside. Luna especially prefers to be out there. The water-logged ground is soft and vulnerable. Luna took that as an invitation to dig. So far, she’s halfway to China. I’m not sure what she’s looking for. Pigs naturally root more in the spring and fall. The spring digging makes sense. New things are alive underground, and the pigs want to eat them. The autumn rooting is less intuitive. Plants are dying, not growing. Maybe it’s part of an instinct to fatten up before the cold weather months. On an unrelated note, I recently ate half a cookie cake by myself. Luna also might just be bored. Unlike Gilly and Onyx, she’s spending her destructive energy outside. It’s why she’s my favorite.

The result is the deepest hole any of the pigs have ever dug. Luna’s entire body fits inside of it. It doesn’t pose an escape risk. It’s not near any of the fence lines. Unless she breaks through the center of the earth, she’ll be staying put. It’s just one more thing for me to repair that’s indirectly related to the hurricane that didn’t hit anywhere close to here. It’s not as dramatic as Peter and Delilah’s hurricane story, which is for the best. I’ll let them have the good disasters—until they get back. Then I’m totally taking their adventure and sharing it here.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James