Peace and Isaac

Mostly, my anger from Katrina is gone. Mostly, I'm over it. I still get overwhelmed with sadness sometimes, but, as Kenny and I discussed this evening, it's not sadness for my own personal losses anymore. Am I still going to be sad sometimes about having no tangible record of my life before age 35? Sure. But mostly, when I get sad about Katrina, it's a sense of melancholy, an overwhelming feeling of sadness for what the people of this area went through--not what I personally went through. And sometimes, the heartache and anger of what everyone here had to suffer, of how people died, and of how some people never recovered, is enough to make me want to curl up into a ball and sob. But for the most part, I'm okay.

All of my friends and family members in other parts of the country have been heartbroken on our behalf that we had to deal with Isaac on the anniversary of Katrina. But to be quite honest, I couldn't think of a more fitting way to spend that day. I didn't have to watch the national news coverage of, what I'm sure, was a "devastating blow for the Gulf Coast," because I didn't have any power to watch said coverage.  From what I've heard, it was quite the heart-wrencher. I may have felt bad for us, too.

But we're okay.  And sitting on my porch, with no electricity, watching the rain come down, and down, and down, and watching the wind blow, and blow, and blow, was my idea of a perfect way to commemorate an anniversary that meant nothing to anyone who wasn't here seven years ago. I mean really, would the seventh anniversary of Katrina have been mentioned at all if Isaac hadn't decided to make a visit and had not Jim Cantore felt the need to come to town? I think not, and that's the way I liked it. Sitting on my porch, having a few drinks, and being awed by what nature can do when she wants to.

But, you assholes who still insist on sitting in your homes in Kansas, where a tornado might touch down at any minute, or in California, where an earthquake, or a mudslide, or a forest fire, might hit any time, and yet you still find the sanctimony to write anonymous comments on websites about how stupid we are for living here and have gotten what we deserved? Well, I don't have much to say to you, other than that the mean part of me hopes that a tornado and/or forest fire and/or an earthquake and/or a mud slide affects you directly, while sparing all of your neighbors' homes, so you can understand that even self-righteousness doesn't protect you from natural disasters.

So yeah, I'm okay. Just don't tell me anymore that I'm stupid for living here and we'll get along just fine.