Modern Fairy Tale

“Do you think that tartan or stripes would bring out the softer grass plantings better Davy?” Dad narrowed his eyes and pondered the merits of mowing patterns as I rolled my eyes and absentmindedly picked a rhododendron leaf to pieces.
“I think I’ll go with stripes,” Dad finally decided, striding over to the garden shed. I trailed after him, twirling some sort of lawn torture device, made for viciously uprooting young dandelions. Dad emerged from the depths of the shed pushing a glossy behemoth of a lawn mower. I’m positive he polishes it at night.
“Peeeeterrrrrrr,” my Mom posed on the porch in the latest of her matching tennis outfits.
“There’s a tropical storm warning dear,” she drawled, “come inside and watch the news.”
“Christine, you know we have a big competition coming up next weekend, I really can’t let this lawn go another hour without a mow or it will upset the nitrate balance,” my Dad replied. My mom spun back into the house, leaving us alone again.
“Dad, we should at least go get some batteries,” I pleaded. “In the last big storm the power went out.”
“Davy, look across the street there,” my dad patronized. “George Kinney has been up since six watering and pruning for the Bridlington’s Best Kept Lawn Competition. And glance down the block my boy, Tristan Michelson has obviously been at it all night. But don’t worry Davy, I think we’ve got first place lined up this year” he asserted.


A few hours later I was driven inside by the cool wind that had picked up, pushed ahead of the stout cirrus clouds stacked up on the horizon. I flopped down on the suede couch, flicked on the television, and was assaulted by a blonde news anchor declaring,
“The tropical storm warning for the southern coast issued earlier today has been upgraded to a Category Three hurricane, homeowners are encouraged to move to higher ground and all houses within a half mile of the coastline are under mandatory evacuation.” I leapt up from the couch as if I had been caught with muddy shoes on and charged outside.
“DAD, it’s classified as a hurricane now.” Dad glanced at me exasperatedly.
“Davy, George and Tristan are both still working up their lawns, I’ll leave my yard when they do,” he proclaimed and proceeded to carefully edge his rosebushes.


The clouds seemed to be streaking by faster with every hour that passed. Short squalls intermittently passed through, drenching both my father and the two stubbornly diligent neighbors in their respective yards. Finally my Mom marched out onto the lawn and threatened to dull every mower blade my Dad owned unless he drove and picked up supplies for the storm. He relented, but I could see him glaring at the Kinney’s and Michelson’s toiling away in their yards as he tore past in our suburban. Dad returned lugging a portable generator behind him.
“Got the last one Christine, almost had to fight a man for it, but I flicked him a twenty and that did the job instead,” he announced and promptly set it up.


Looking out the window, the murky clouds seem to press low upon the town, smothering light but letting the air currents howl through the streets. The wind rips the weaker branches off trees and sends them soaring through the air. Someone must have left their trashcan out and it reels drunkenly through the middle of the street, accumulating dents as it tumbles. Dad strides around the house fastening the storm windows and muttering under his breath about being so crudely and publicly wrenched from his work while both the Kinney’s and Michelson’s were watching.


Our standard poodle, Admiral, paces in the living room in front of the flatscreen that flickers with a miniature version of the storm packaged neatly next to the anchor on the nightly NESN news. The wind slams into the roof of our house and clatters down the chimney like an unwelcome Mr. Claus. Faintly above the raging storm I can hear a desperate knocking on the door. Dad goes to answer it and returns with all four Kinney’s wrapped in drenched clothing. They look somewhat abashed at showing up at our door unannounced. George Kinney clears his throat and asks if we wouldn’t mind some company, as their power went out and the pipes in their ceiling seem to have broken. My Mom accepts immediately and bustles off to the kitchen to put water on for tea.


The rain is driven completely sideways now, I step outside onto the porch and am nearly bowled over by the sheer force of the wind. Cold bullets of rain lash my face, the storm sucks at my jacket, and the wind keeps stealing my breath before I can get it into my lungs. Across the street at the Michelson’s, movement catches my eye. The top third of their stately maple tree - the sole reason for their win at the yard competition last year according to Dad - snaps off and crunches into the roof of their house, ripping down telephone lines during its final plunge. A few seconds later the entire Michelson family jumps through their front door, staggering as the wind and rain attempts to drive them into their carefully groomed hedge. They forge the foaming Ganges river that the street has become and battle their way up to our house.


Several cups of tea and hours go by, and Dad is looking smug at being the man in charge of the whole block’s welfare. It eventually grows silent and humid, all three families cautiously pile through the front door. The looming clouds are stacked high and the sunlight bounces down through a the hollow center of the hurricane, illuminating the destruction wreaked on our street. The Kinney’s hedge has been stripped of leaves and it seems as though half the shingles from their roof have been entangled in the naked twisting branches. The Michelson’s have a huge splinter of a tree impaled through their roof of their drawing room. Somehow our house survived the storm, however damply. The lawn is a mess of mud and debris, but somehow I don't think the yard is Dad's priority for once.