April Fool: Unoriginal Title, Original Content

It's always an indicator if I don't make 'blog day' it's because there's so much going on I'm literally incapable of remembering what day it is, even if I thought of it earlier in the day. This time, I got in early evening after staying up almost all night without food in order to upgrade to a better dwelling on schedule. There is some peace of mind now that having been in a flood zone in the wake of Hurricane Sandy with another evacuation warning during hurricane season just the year before is really no longer an issue now.

I'm thankful and grateful having survived another displacement; there have been benefits, though not without stress. There are others who had it so much worse; we were still among the fortunate. And there were lessons learned, about the generosity of others not previously experienced in an area not well known for its compassion or hospitality. I wanted to leave New York, and ended up on Staten Island. Despite all that's happened, it's been a mixed blessing to have been here during and after the "superstorm". Even though the trauma of having lost everything more than once before was temporarily reactivated, the coping and recovery were more bearable because of so many dedicated as volunteers who traveled from across the country and staying for months on end until their assignments were finished. Most are scheduled to return home at the end of the month: the six month mark from the day after the storm.

It was not only those from elsewhere who gave generously of their irreplaceable time and other resources; it was also the nicest of New Yorkers: the true New York's Finest, as well as a few NYPD officers who actually fit the description that has referred to them in the past. There are nice native New Yorkers, they're just much fewer and further between than say, West Virginia, where typical New Yorkers who go there experience a reverse culture shock. The first state under the Mason Dixon that marks the beginning of 'the south' is known for its hospitality. To a New Yorker, people who say 'hello' to strangers and are 'nice for no reason' are almost impossible to tolerate.

In the northeast, and especially in 'the city', unless one is of the few generous-hearted who surfaced and stepped up in the wake of a 'superstorm', such behavior in their experience only happens when something is sought in exchange. Not so for West Virginians, and volunteers who displaced themselves for the better part of a year to be available and assist others who lost everything. I can only hope to be in a position in the future to do the same, or something similar. Meanwhile, the family secret saga resumes next month, about some native West Virginians two generations ago of the same blood as this author, authored by my grandfather's sister.

It is being copied from less than a hundred pages of hand written notes; and now more than half complete here. More will unfold as the story continues, woven into what has become our lives today. I don't remember ever having met my grandfather's sister, though I did know her offspring. One I didn't know was such until after their death, and it was just as well. Had I known then it may not have made a difference, though the effects of those contacts have affected more than one life forever.

I don't know how many others were also hurt; I only know when I heard grandpa's nephew had passed I was not sad. Only until I read what his mother had written did I know we were related, many years later, relatively recently.

Sandy Town Hall Meeting/family secrets

The impact of the Superstorm will be felt in this community for years to come. There are businesses that still have not reopened; people that have not returned to their homes. Many wish to be bought out, never to return to their former areas where destruction and death occurred. Some have nothing left and still nowhere to go; some are living in cars, guarding over their properties yet to have electricity, heat, or water restored.

This was confirmed at a town hall meeting last night at the high school nearest to one of the most devastated areas. In the beginning, it was standing room only, with most public officials on the stage. The president came the week before Thanksgiving, a holiday I took the time to research that had its own aftermath I'm almost ashamed I didn't know earlier. Some of the people in the town hall meeting had spoken to the president, some were in photos posted on Facebook. Nothing was happening for most in a timely manner. The Red Cross going around in neighborhoods ringing a bell for hot meals or distributing blankets was no longer enough. The food and clothing had either run out, had become limited, or moved to other locations most didn't want to go to.

As the town hall progressed the crowd thinned as hours passed; some went into the high school cafeteria where agency representatives continued to provide updated information or additional resources. Most who had left the auditorium had finished what they either had to say or heard enough, most leaving without the answers they sought, still discouraged and frustrated. There had been tear-filled voices in the microphones, and anger. There were notes taken, with no timelines guaranteed, or practical acceptable solutions for those with serious concerns, many of which were being heard for the first time. I took photos to remember, including the media cameras and their reporters, none of which I saw later on the 11 o'clock news, simply because I didn't watch.

The reality was on the ground, in this community, and others hit as hard. Recovery will take years. They say another storm of this magnitude in the near future is unlikely; it's no consolation to those whose feelings range from uncomfortable to a despair that their homes no longer exist or if rebuilt will be subject to the same destruction the next hurricane season; there's no guarantee it won't be next year, in the next decade, or the next century. There is no protection from the ocean; there will be more storms. No one wishes to be in the path of any at any time, never knowing when the next 'big one' will hit.

I was given a list of real estate options to explore in the event I chose to move out of a flood zone in one of the less affected areas, where many street lights remained out and generator lights still shined their ghostly brightness to the hum of their motors, a sound now associated with trauma and uncertainty, not for the first time.

I had planned to continue the family story written by my grandfather's sister who passed away before I knew of her, which will continue. It contains within it the seeds of deeply buried family secrets I didn't realize until reading it as it unfolds in tolerable installments here. She never knew how her son really lived later in life. I'm sure she was an okay woman, whose child was exposed to and committed an unthinkable act. She likely died before it happened; I'm not sure. I only realized until reading her story why some things did or didn't happen during my childhood, when I expected more, when I expected to be protected and believed. Had the truth been known or dealt with, the consequences could have been more devastating than a hurricane, though not as much as a child's trust betrayed or dismissed.