When last we chatted, I was muttering under my breath those oaths that are so essential an element in the practice of journalism. Then, having succeeded once again in producing a home delivery edition of the paper, I headed out into the storm.
The rain was heavy, though not so heavy as a few downpours in recent weeks, and the wind was stiff but not terrifying. I made only a couple of detours, once to get around an intersection a couple of blocks ahead that I saw blocked by a police cruiser, once to avoid a stretch of street that I thought might be flooded. Then, on my own block of Plymouth Road, I came across a huge limb in the middle of the street, which I had to drag to the curb.
At home, I was congratulating myself to Kathleen on my safe return and thinking longingly of bourbon poured over ice when the lights went out. The rain continued to come down, and I repaired to the basement to gaze on the rising water in the sump. Nothing for it but to begin bailing.
I bailed the sump for the better part of the next seven hours, remarking at several points how heavy water is and suggesting aloud that it would be very thoughtful of Baltimore Gas and Electric to restore the juice. I collapsed and slept for a couple of hours, spelled by Kathleen, and returned to the task, with the back and knees of a much older man, continuing off and on as the water level began to stabilize until noon or one o’clock, when inflow had basically ceased.
A little before five o’clock the lights came back on.
So now, new plans: When the damn cable modem, which appears to have forgotten who is paying for it, makes up its mind to restore the Internet connection,* I can post this entry and approve any comments that have accumulated. Then that bourbon splashed over the ice. And tomorrow, off to buy a battery backup for the sump pump.
*As you can see, this took some time beyond the composition of this post.