Three days and nights of relentless rain had washed out the roads and driven all but the gulls indoors. The ditches filled and then overflowed, the strawberry field was underwater and the blackberry patch was losing ground. The factory had closed on the morning of the third day and there was a general retreat in effect. Even the ferry suspended serivce as there were no passengers having anywhere to go.
We watched awestruck when the tiny post office building floated by and came to a stop when it crashed headlong into the guard rail. There it sat, rocking back and forth like a cradle until eventually the water carried it over and it spilled onto the rocks below where it split open and shattered. The tide carried the pieces out to sea and all that was ever found was the battered old door that washed up on Peter's Island, splintered and waterlogged but intact. Uncle Willie's pasture turned into a swamp and his old hay wagon soon followed the path of the post office. The beach was littered with bits of wood and metal and random debris. We watched a river of water carry away the backyard swing set and a dozen or so of Uncle Shad's lobster traps drifted past, then a line of bait barrels and a solitary church bench followed by pieces of a white picket fence. The guard rail did it's best against the onslaught but it the end the metal dented and twisted and gave way, never having been meant to stop a flood.
Nana did her best. We baked cookies and bread, played dominoes and every board game we could find. The radio played ceaselessly through the static. She taught us hearts and three kinds of solitaire, challenged us to jacks, and helped us with crossword puzzles. We read and wrote postcards and played dress up and watched the rain carry off more belongings - a beaten up bicycle, a small ice chest, a clothesline complete with several pairs of long johns still attached, a Union Jack flag, parts of a stained glass window. Some went over the side of the road, some swirled past, some came down the gravel driveway but all traveled the water's route. The fog rolled in and out like the tides, hanging in the air like thick, dripping curtains then slowly sailing past and out to sea. On the fifth day, a Sunday, it cleared.
Islanders talked about the storm for years, about how so much had been driven to the sea and yet how little had been lost, proving once again that it's all in how you look at things.
We watched awestruck when the tiny post office building floated by and came to a stop when it crashed headlong into the guard rail. There it sat, rocking back and forth like a cradle until eventually the water carried it over and it spilled onto the rocks below where it split open and shattered. The tide carried the pieces out to sea and all that was ever found was the battered old door that washed up on Peter's Island, splintered and waterlogged but intact. Uncle Willie's pasture turned into a swamp and his old hay wagon soon followed the path of the post office. The beach was littered with bits of wood and metal and random debris. We watched a river of water carry away the backyard swing set and a dozen or so of Uncle Shad's lobster traps drifted past, then a line of bait barrels and a solitary church bench followed by pieces of a white picket fence. The guard rail did it's best against the onslaught but it the end the metal dented and twisted and gave way, never having been meant to stop a flood.
Nana did her best. We baked cookies and bread, played dominoes and every board game we could find. The radio played ceaselessly through the static. She taught us hearts and three kinds of solitaire, challenged us to jacks, and helped us with crossword puzzles. We read and wrote postcards and played dress up and watched the rain carry off more belongings - a beaten up bicycle, a small ice chest, a clothesline complete with several pairs of long johns still attached, a Union Jack flag, parts of a stained glass window. Some went over the side of the road, some swirled past, some came down the gravel driveway but all traveled the water's route. The fog rolled in and out like the tides, hanging in the air like thick, dripping curtains then slowly sailing past and out to sea. On the fifth day, a Sunday, it cleared.
Islanders talked about the storm for years, about how so much had been driven to the sea and yet how little had been lost, proving once again that it's all in how you look at things.
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