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Yesterday, while 65 million people were reminded that they were in the path of Irene, this terrible storm, we drove north with our son toward his final year of school—past dairy farms and winding creeks, silos, horses, backpackers.  It was an eerie lull, and despite utterly clear skies and bright light, the tension—at the rest stop, on the roads—was palpable.  Move-in was easy; we are veterans by now.  Our son has three terrific roommates and a full slate of fascinating-sounding classes and producer work at the school's TV station.  Saying good-bye is never easy, but by 8 P.M., we were making the long way home.

The roads were jammed.  The traffic that you on the west coast have read of was real.  I woke this morning at dawn to screen images of Irene's wrath but not a drop of rain here, only that warning:  it will come.

I have done nothing to prepare for this storm.  Am out of gas, money, and food, and the deck chairs still sit right out there, on the deck.  I'm off now to do those things I should have yesterday done, and then to drive the half hour down the road, in the early moments of the storm, to join those authors who can come for the PAYA festival, a PA library fundraiser beginning at 11 AM at 1585 Paoli Road, on which Skyanne has worked so hard.  I'll be home by two, and then I'm battening those hatches down.  I've got a friend's book-in-progress to read, The Bird House and The Buddha in the Attic on the iPad, 3,000 words left to write of my own novel.  I am sending love and prayers to all those whose lives will be changed by Miss Irene.  Sending hope out to my country.

I will be back if the power stays on, and if it doesn't, I'll be back after that.

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