The day before the “hurricane” came to our little yellow house on the cove in Maine was cloudy and warm with a soft breeze. The late afternoon, when the fog appeared suddenly over the water, moved spookily toward the house and then retreated, was like most other late afternoons. There was the sun vaguely visible behind the opaque sky; you could feel its warmth, but there was nothing clear or brilliant about it. You could, if you chose, think these were signs of the storm, though the hurricane was then ravaging New York, too far south still to affect our island. The wind was slight, the crickets thrummed, Harry the Heron walked slowly on his stilt-like legs, watchful in the shallows of the incoming tide.
That was Saturday. Sunday was decidedly hurricane affected–wet air that became rain, and then, in the afternoon, thrashing wind-filled trees and their companion, no power. But John’s radio played big band music in the studio that had two walls of windows with a view across the grass to the cove, making it the coziest and best-lit room in the house.