August 20, 2009. Tuesday night there was a tremendous storm. 100 trees were downed. Maybe 200 more were damaged beyond saving. The park that is my backyard, from 86th Street north, has been rent asunder. I slept in Wednesday morning, but today I had to go out, drawn by the questions from my brothers about the havoc visited on Tuesday. The rain was so heavy, the downpour so fueled by a furious wind, that I couldn’t see out my windows and I was driven from them by the pounding of the rain against the glass. Was it hail? I was almost giddy with the fury of the elements – lightening and thunder – wondering if they would crash through my glass and invade my home and lash at my art stashed under the windows. I moved the art. There was a smell amidst all of this splintered wood, an unpleasant smell, something I didn’t want to be around. I worried. But the giant London Plane that I greet on my walks was intact, even the fungus growing out of an ancient wound where a limb once grew looked untouched. Tonight people wandered among the fallen trees, nearly crying, gaping at the tragedy of these giant providers of shade and comfort that had succumbed to 40 minutes of turbulence.
