Spiders and Storms

Life is picking up again and this might be my last blog post for a little while.  Thanks for reading.

Love,

Sam

~~~~~~~~~

I admire spiders

What if we all took the time

To weave such fine webs?

I admire spiders.  How they spend every last calorie weaving silk between anchors of buildings and trees.  How they see a home where we see empty spaces between.  How they persist in their life's work through interference from wind and the destructive hands of children.

Last weekend a friend and I watched the sunset from the Cabrini Footbridge on Bayou St. John.  The bridge, the oldest in New Orleans, was once a portage for cargo from Lake Ponchartrain to the Mississippi River.  No longer needed for this purpose, its thin metal skeleton and aging wooden planks now mostly bear the weight of dog walkers and awkward first dates.

The wind picked up, and we noticed spiders bouncing back and forth upon webs-in-progress.  Certain angles rendered the webs invisible and the spiders seemed almost to vibrate in mid-air.  At breaks in the wind the spiders would return to work, sliding along diligently and expanding their webs to the blueprint of instinctive design.

In days Tropical Storm Isaac would arrive in New Orleans, probably as a hurricane.  It had already reached the Caribbean.  We wondered aloud what would happen here, spiders and all.

By Sunday afternoon school had been cancelled through Wednesday, and that evening we made a plan to evacuate.  Isaac was to strengthen to a category two, with winds up to 100 miles per hour and stronger gusts.  Trees and power lines would fall, and the slow-moving storm threatened to dump 18 inches or more of rain, possibly flooding swaths of the city.  Power would likely be out for days, and perhaps gas and water as well.  We aimed to leave for Atlanta early Monday afternoon, after we had a chance to storm-proof the house and stock up on supplies.

That morning I went to the grocery to get food for the road.  By eight the parking lot was full and the bottled water nearly out.  People weren't leaving, they were gearing up.  Caterpillars preparing chrysalises.

I went into school to help prepare the garden.  We rolled logs, flipped tables, secured loose tools, and prepared a chicken shelter inside the school.  Most people sounded ready to weather the storm at home, leaving at the last-minute if necessary.  I spoke with my Atlanta-bound friends and all of us had been similarly emboldened.  We would wait it out here.

By Tuesday mid-morning the edge of the storm began creeping in.  The police announced a dusk-till-dawn curfew in expectation of a dark and stormy city.  They cancelled school through Thursday.  As the day drew on the sky greyed and the sway of trees grew from a lilting waltz to a frantic swing.  We ran last-minute errands then hunkered down at home, ready to lose power at any moment.  That evening we watched a film and fell asleep to steady rain and loud whispers of rustling leaves.  Gusts woke me up in the night as wind hissed and windows shook, and by morning the power was out.

Wednesday we didn't leave the house.  The wind stayed strong through the afternoon but the rain slowed to a drizzle.  I called my parents every twelve hours to reassure them that I was ok, and they reassured me that the worst was yet to come so I'd better be careful.  I kept my cell phone off in between calls.  I spent most of the day horizontal, working my way through The Shipping News and editing a poem.  I took at least three naps and was about as happy as a boy could be in the middle of an extreme weather event.

That night it appeared that the worst winds had passed, and the promised rains had not yet arrived.  I wanted more than anything to go outside, not to experience the tempest but to see what my neighborhood looked like without power and pedestrians.  Feeling a little stir-crazy, a little reckless, and morbidly curious, we took a walk around 10 PM.

Outside we saw a police car pull up to a neighbors house so we walked the other way.  I'm not sure if I had remembered the curfew or was just being cautious but some part of me felt that stealth was the right approach.  We walked along oak-lined Banks street, stepping between downed branches and deepening puddles towards Jeff Davis parkway.

I turned the corner and my jaw dropped to the pavement.

The Jefferson Davis parkway is a wonderful stretch of road.  In between two lanes on either side lies a vast neutral ground, large enough to accomodate a playground, a volleyball court, and the occasional pickup football game.  The neutral ground is lined with stunning elderly live oaks, and every evening I bike home on the narrow concrete path that leads from the Bayou to my block.  Name not withstanding, it's probably my favorite roadway in New Orleans.  Most evenings it's teeming with activity.  On my corner there's a 24-hour tattoo parlor, and within a five-block walk there are about four bars, a bank and two gas stations.

Tonight Jeff Davis felt empty.  No sounds save for rain and wind.  All the traffic lights were out; the neon beer signs off, the tattoo parlor closed for the first time since I moved here.  Beneath the faint glow of the clouded sky we saw a new place: navy blue silhouettes of trees and houses, dozens of cars parked on the neutral ground to protect from flooding, roads spared from the pounding of car and foot traffic, trees absent birds but encumbered by the weight of fresh water.  We stepped into rareness, and were lost in awe.

We made a left and headed towards where the parkway curves up over I-10.  We cleared the buffer of trees and the rain pounded us with tiny pellets.  At the top of the curve we saw more of the same wonder.  The whole city dark, minus the Parish Prison and the shell of the Superdome.  Priorities, priorities.

By morning the wind had calmed.  Hard to say who came out first, the spiders or the people.  We drove to the French Quarter to find power, and already the bars were packed.  It was 11:30 AM.

Back in Midcity the caterpillars had emerged, now butterflies.  On every street people were sweeping up leaves, collecting branches into piles, and moving cars back to lower ground.  Along the Bayou we heard a brass band warming up, and minutes later a crowd of 50 had collected for an impromptu street party.  Across the water a father and son sat together carving spatulas from the fallen wood of a neighbor's pear tree.  The tree had stood for over 60 years, and its keepers had often brought gifts of pear pie.  A circle fulfilled.

Back on the Cabrini footbridge the spiders were hard at work.  New webs to be woven, always.  Early Monday morning I came back to the bridge to see them.  Dozens and dozens of webs, maybe 100 in all.  As if the storm had never come, but of course it had.

I admire spiders.

I admire this city.