Here in the south Jersey-Philadelphia area, we were fortunate, in that Hurricane Sandy didn’t slam into us the way it did to the shore’s barrier islands, or the way it disrupted New York. My cousin, who lives near the water in New York, lost his car and still doesn’t have power.
I thought I’d take a moment to let you know how we—my wife, Barbara and I—spent those “hurricane days” while hunkered down in storm mode.
Barbara read two books; I read two books. I tried watching the first half of the Eagles’ lifeless performance against the Atlanta Falcons that Sunday, but returned to my murder mystery before the second half started. I found the characters in Caroline Graham’s novel far less boring than the Eagles offensive attack—or rather lack thereof.
I stopped looking at the Weather Channel early Monday morning, because I didn’t need to hear any more about Michelin Tires or Allstate Insurance. The ratio of advertisement to actual storm information was running about three-to-one, so I opted to recline back on the couch and pick up another novel—this one by Mary Higgins Clark.
Here in south Jersey, we were right in the storm’s anticipated path of landfall—as the Weather Channel was persistently warning us. I know that information is intended to cause us concern, but as Barbara was quick to tell me, “There’s no sense worrying about things we have no control over.”