Come on, Irene.

Three days before Irene hit, home-life was much like a hurricane. The dog broke into the trash and thoughtfully spread it all down the driveway. Twice. After eating day old raw chicken and vegetable peels, he subsequently threw up in the house. Three times. The children, normally such good friends, decided now would be a good time to open hostilities. The word “mine” was receiving such a workout, we actually went to the library to find children’s books on the topic. When the four year old was really irked with the two year old she uninvited him to her birthday party, the retractable verbal benchmark among preschoolers that decides whether someone is your friend, or not. When the two year old was really irked with the four year old he resorted to age old Neanderthal practices with a slow but effective right-arm thump. I thought it had to be a full moon. Or exhaustion from eleven weeks of school vacation. Or back to pre-school blues. Then New York had an earthquake followed by a hurricane. And everything just made sense.

Its roots may be a compunction to control, quite possibly genetic, but I do not do well with chaos. I like to plan ahead, really far ahead if possible. The ongoing love affair with full year at-a-glance paper calendars is the legacy of corporate days merrily scheduling business travel up to a year or even eighteen months ahead. Regrettably, my husband does not share this passion and is typically not thrilled when I want to discuss Christmas plans in August or booking next year’s summer vacation two days after returning from this year’s holiday spot. But like Jack Sprat and his wife, there’s a place for planners and non-planners in this world. Without the expenditure of my energies, we may never schedule time to socialize with anyone, secure reservations or snag tickets to nearly sold out shows. Nonetheless, without my husband’s calm resolve, I may be left hand wringing and wearing ashes and sackcloth over inclement travel advisories and show cancellations.

Nearly three months ago I had planned ahead - with a similarly minded friend - to see the Mark Morris Dance Company at Jacob’s Pillow. The friend would travel up from Maryland for the weekend and we’d make a night of it with dinner al fresco, the performance, and a backstage meet and greet organized through her friend. To her credit, she kept a day ahead of Irene, making it into NYC Penn Station and upstate to Albany on subways and trains, all before Mayor Bloomburg shuttered the transit doors.

As hurricane Irene whipped up the east coast wreaking havoc in North Carolina and on, weather predictions here worsened until the prospect of getting to Jacob’s Pillow was questionable, and getting back was frankly ill advised. I called the box office. “Tonight’s performance will continue, without refunds,” I was told. Tanglewood cancelled their night’s event, and later Jacob’s Pillow would cancel performances for Sunday. But not for Saturday night. (Who makes these calls?) I’m guessing with the dance company in residence, the show had to go on. We later heard from the dancers that the show suffered a near empty audience and the Pillow some hefty downed tree limbs. Forget the refund, I’m disappointed to have missed the show at all, and a tad browned off at no mention of a partial comp for next season. Sunday was a glorious day of sunshine that meant the destruction of the previous twenty-four hours beggared belief. And with a comp, I’d have been at the matinee in a heartbeat.

We made it through the storm with just a few downed trees, one left dangling precariously on power lines and blocking the road, a snapped power cable with frayed ends trailing on the asphalt. After two days, with brave drivers and even a cyclist ignoring cones and gliding past, the power company reached us, confirmed the lines were “hot” (live) and shut off the power. We had tried to warn the cyclist as he peddled inches from the cable. I really had no urge to see how well his metal bicycle would conduct electricity. But some people clearly don’t like to adjust their plans and he had some place to be. No doubt he’d fit right in with the headstrong folks kayaking in the storm, or refusing mandatory evacuations.

Meanwhile with the excitement of the storm, power company trucks, downed trees, and tree surgeons, there’s plenty to occupy everyone at the homestead. The oldest Little is worried the storm blew the fairies out of the trees and is busy investigating. The youngest is concerned about snagging a ride in the NiMo truck’s crane. And if that’s all for now, I’d like to get back to planning. Thanks very much.