Of course, on second thought, it’s not nearly as beautiful a scene if it’s not a hammock at all, but a giant seed pod incubating an alien body snatcher.

When I was young, I was a huge fan of In Search Of, and, when it went off the air, Unsolved Mysteries was the next best thing that I could find to fill the void. So, I watched it pretty regularly, daydreaming about the day when I’d grow up, leave home, and find work playing the part of a criminal in one of their reenactments. Anyway, it was though Unsolved Mysteries that, as a young kid in New Jersey, I first became acquainted with the city of Ypsilanti. The episode in question centered around the unsolved murder of an Ypsilanti real estate agent by the name of Jack Brown. Well, lately, for whatever reason, I’ve found myself wondering about the case, and, more specifically, the building where the murder took place. And, it was this insatiable curiosity of mine that led me to YouTube today, in search of the episode, which I haven’t seen in over 25 years. Fortunately, I was able to find it… Here it is, in two parts.

I’m not sure exactly why this specific episode has stuck in my head all of these years, when I can’t remember things that are truly important to me, like the names of my friends’ kids, and my computer password, but I guess that’s how my mind works. Maybe it was the conspiracy angle, as articulated by Jack’s wife, who mentioned that Jack claimed to have been in possession of evidence that would send powerful people to prison. Or, more likely, I just liked the smart-ass response that Jack, in the reenactment, directed toward the gunman, who had burst into his office, asking, “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?” Jack’s reply, according to witnesses, was, “Well… maybe.” (He was the immediately shot in the neck.) For whatever reason, though, the episode was burned into my young mind.

The case is a weird one. People seem think that the men who murdered Jack Brown, given the way the conducted themselves, were hired killers, but no one seems to know why the seemingly mild-mannered real estate agent was targeted for death on Jan. 11, 1984. Ed Hall, the Ypsilanti Police Department detective interviewed in the piece, suggests that Brown may have been “leading a secret life”, unbeknownst to friends and family. There’s scant information available online, but, given some comments left in response to a post on the EMUtalk site in 2009 about cronyism involved in the hiring of EMU’s Chief Government Relations Officer, I think it’s safe to say that some believe that Jack was killed by high-powered individuals in Ypsilanti. Following are a few of these comments.

Alum:
I’m betting none of you will touch this one with a 10 foot pole! If you know the history, you know that it is, or that it borders on being criminal based on some of the things done in the past. How many of you know what the “Eagle Brief” is, or was, and the story behind Ehman and Greenstreet Real Estate and the T.V. show Unsolved Mysteries?

EMULifer:
I don’t disagree with you Alum. Just saying the good ol’ boys were never directly linked to the killing of Jack Brown.

FullOfQuestions
Jack Brown is my grandfather. I am tied in with both the Brown’s and the Stumbo’s. I promise you that these rumors aren’t just rumors. Ypsilanti is a shady place and it makes me happy knowing that other people are aware of it too. I would just be cautious when dealing with certain people around here.

I should add, before anyone targets me for elimination, that have no information relative to this case, and no burning desire to see it solved. My interest is strictly in the identification of the building in which the murder took place, which you can see in the initial few frames of the first video above. Ehman & Greestreet still exists as a firm, with offices at 1947 Whitaker Road, but, judging from the footage, I’m thinking that the building where this took place was on Michigan Avenue. At any rate, if any of you cyber sleuths could help me out, I’d appreciate it.

Additional reading on the death of Jack Brown can be found at The Michigan Daily, Unsolved Mysteries, and, for some reason, Sitcoms Online. (For what it’s worth, I don’t think it would make a very good sitcom.)

Loveless, jobless, possibly terminally ill, Frank has had enough of the downward spiral of America. With nothing left to lose, Frank takes his gun and offs the stupidest, cruelest, and most repellent members of society. He finds an unusual accomplice: 16-year-old Roxy, who shares his sense of rage and disenfranchisement.

Bill Murray’s brother Joel plays Frank… And, I should add, the movie, which is called God Bless America, was written and directed by Bobcat Goldthwait, the man behind such unsettlingly dark comedies as Shakes the Clown, Sleeping Dogs Lie, and World’s Greatest Dad.

Here’s the trailer:

I was struggling with words to describe it when I happened across the following description on Metafilter… Someone said it was like “Falling Down meets Juno.”

I’d like to offer more in the way of thoughtful analysis on this, but I think I’m going to leave it to the rest of you this time. You see, I’m trying to take a break from things that I think may feed into my depression and anxiety. Once every few years or so, I find myself slipping into a worse than normal place, and I’m trying, as best as I can, to turn things around before they get too difficult to manage. That means forgoing right wing talk radio, in favor of classical music, eating more vegetables than burgers, and spending more time swimming and running than reading news about the Republican primary. And, for that reason, I don’t think I want to spend too much time getting inside of Bob Goldthwait’s head right now, and exploring the righteous anger that he clearly feels toward American popular culture. I think it’s certainly worth discussing… don’t get me wrong… I just don’t feel up to watching the trailer again and being a part of the bloody retribution fantasy at the moment… No, I’m going to spend my night listening to lovely old jazz records from the 20s and 30s.

Here, for those of you who want more, is a bit of an interview with Goldthwait that ran a few months ago on SanDiego.com.

What can you tell me about God Bless America?
Bobcat Goldthwait: It’s funny, the other day I showed it to my friends and I was really surprised that they were all kind of shocked by it. I think people think it’s a vigilante movie where this character goes out and starts killing reality stars. I mean that’s a little part of it, but it’s also kind of about where are we going and the culture and basically the dumbest members of our society. Sometimes when I hear myself giving interviews I want to punch myself in the throat, because I’m like, ‘Really, this is the dude from Police Academy pontificating about where are we going as a society, blah, blah, blah.’

Well, I think a lot of people often forget how young you were when you filmed the Police Academy movies.
Bobcat Goldthwait: Yeah, I was in my early 20’s when I did those movies, but I really didn’t know I’d be talking about this for the rest of my life, I think I probably would’ve worked harder.

I grew up in the 80’s and all the films you were in are a huge part of my youth culture. I really loved Scrooged.
Bobcat Goldthwait: I was really excited when we made Scrooged because it was kind of neat knowing that I’d be in a movie that would be on every Christmas.

What actors are you working with in God Bless America?
Bobcat Goldthwait: It’s funny that we’re talking about Scrooged, because Joel Murray, who’s Bill’s brother is in it; Joel’s a very talented actor. The rest of the cast are people that we either found or are my friends. The young girl in the movie is named Tara Lynn Barr and she has been on a bunch of Disney shows, but I don’t think they’ll have her back on after this movie…

[Note: The best thing about that Metafilter conversation I linked to above, is that it tipped me off the existence of FDR American Badass.]

It doesn’t take a lot to keep this site going. It only needs a tiny spark of hope. My OCD takes care of the rest. But, as of right now, the spark is gone.

So as not to end on a completely depressing note, here’s a photo of Arlo and me sleeping on the couch. Judging from the angle, I’d say that Clementine must have taken it. As for Arlo, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it here before, but he was born at home, a few feet from where I’m typing this. It was an incredible experience, and some day I hope to tell you all about it. Unfortunately, though, I can’t do that until Linette has published the comic version, which is apparently already in the works.

[note: For our last conversation on the above mentioned indefinite military detention legislation click here. And, you'll find our last conversation about the movement toward for-profit schools in Michigan here.]

I know there’s stuff that I should be writing about, but I’m finding it incredibly difficult to get motivated tonight. So, instead of reading through the weekend’s news and trying to come up with something clever, I’m reading up on the early life of Orson Welles. Right now, I’m watching what’s thought to be his first film, an 8-minute experimental short called The Hearts of Age. Welles, who was 19 at the time, co-directed it with a friend by the name of William Vance. Both, if I’m not mistaken, were students at the Art Institute of Chicago. (Welles had turned down a scholarship at Harvard to attend the Art Institute of Chicago.) Less than six years later, Welles would be making one of the greatest films of all time – Citizen Kane. Vance, who starred in some of Welles’ earlier stage productions at the Todd School for Boys, in Woodstock, Illinois, would go on to produce and direct television commercials. (I’ve spent the last half hour trying to find a list of the commercials he was responsible for, with no luck.)

The 16mm film would not be discovered until the late 1960s, when Welles biographer Joseph McBride would find it among a number of artifacts donated by Vance to the Greenwich, Connecticut Public Library. McBride announced his discovery in a Spring 1970 issue of Film Quarterly. His article, entitled “Welles Before Kane,” explored both The Hearts of Age and another Welles short – Too Much Johnson, which was shot in 1938. [note to self: If you ever decide to make a porn film, call it Too Much Johnson as an homage to Welles.] In McBride’s later book, What Ever Happened to Orson Welles?, he states that “Welles seemed bemused and somewhat irritated by the discovery” of The Hearts of Age. He then quotes Gary Graver, Welles’ longtime cinematographer, as saying the following: “Orson kept saying, ‘Why did Joe have to discover that film?’”

So, maybe it wasn’t his best work. I’m still finding it fascinating, though.

Here, before I share the video, is a bit of background from White City Cinema:

…Ostensibly a parody of classic avant-garde movies he had seen while on trips to New York City (in particular Jean Cocteau’s The Blood of a Poet, Robert Wiene’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Luis Bunuel’s Un Chien Andalou), the seeds of Welles’ visionary genius are already evident in this formative work…

Young Mr. Welles shot The Hearts of Age entirely in suburban Highland Park, Illinois, on the campus of the Todd School for Boys where he had graduated from high school three years earlier. Welles was living in Chicago at the time but frequently returned to Highland Park to direct theatrical productions for the Todd School. It was during one such trip that he made The Hearts of Age with a team of close friends including producer/co-director/cinematographer William Vance and actors Paul Edgerton and Virginia Nicholson (also his future bride)…

In This is Orson Welles, Peter Bogdanovich’s indispensable book-length interview with Welles, the great director claims that The Hearts of Age was nothing more than “Sunday afternoon fun out on the lawn” and “a send up”. Of course it is entirely possible that Welles did not originally intend the film to be a light-hearted parody of the avant-garde but rather an earnest attempt to work in a mode that he had seen and admired as a young man – and his later comments may have been made defensively in hindsight. But if Old Mr. Welles was embarrassed by The Hearts of Age, he needn’t have been. Like the early sketches of a master painter, the film in many ways points the way towards the greatness that would come (in particular in Welles’ use of elaborate make-up and in how he blends techniques gleaned from the German Expressionist and Soviet Montage movements), which makes it an invaluable piece of the Orson Welles puzzle when viewed today…

And here’s the video, put to the music of Dr. John and Chris Barber.

I’m just thankful that nothing I attempted at the age of 19 will ever find it’s way to the light of day. (I’m likewise thankful that none of my artistic endeavors required that I attempt blackface.)

According to the notes that accompany the video on YouTube, William Vance played the Indian in the blanket, and Paul Edgerton played the bell-ringer in blackface. Welles, of course, played Death, and that was his first wife, Virginia Nicholson, playing the old woman who so sexually rode the bell that the man in blackface hanged himself upon. As for the bell, I’m wondering where it is now. From what I can tell, the Todd School for Boys no longer exists, but I imagine the building shown in this film might still be standing. I’m writing to the Woodstock public library now. Maybe it’s an OCD thing, but I feel as though I need to what happened to that bell, and to the school that Welles considered home.

And aren’t those still shots of Welles above, which I grabbed from the video, absolutely incredible?

Actually, in a way, the “Lorem ipsum” thing kind of works in the context of Taekwondo, as, if I’m not mistaken, one of the phrases can be translated as, “circumstances occur in which toil and pain can procure him some great pleasure.” So, maybe they knew what they were doing. Maybe they were trying to attract the attention of Latin-speaking parents of masochistic children… And, I should add, it was kind of difficult to get this photo. Or, at least, I felt awkward taking photos of the this window as little, robed kids jumped around inside. I tend to over think things due to the OCD, but I really got the sense that their parents found it creepy. Fortunately for me, all the parents taking their kids to Taekwondo are wimps.

I should also add that the two signs did not appear together, which really would have been funny… Or at least I like the idea that people would drop their kids off for Taekwondo and then proceed to strip down nude in the waiting room.

Here’s one more hint. The top sign was not intended for the male patrons of Deja Vu, which, I think, would also be funny… I wonder if male strip club patrons ever feel the urge to take off their clothes and clamber up on stage. Can someone remind me to call and ask a Deja Vu manager that the next time I say I’m bored?

And, yeah, I drank too much. That’s what happens, I guess, when you run into Patrick at 6:00 and decide to head over to Powell’s for “one drink.” And, yeah, I know that I ruined Patrick’s interview by obsessing on the absence of damned light switches in Hasan’s room, but I couldn’t help myself. My OCD took over.

[*O'Shea in not Hasan's real last name. If I used his real last name, though, this could be found my his family in Jordan.]

WEDNESDAY:
This time, I’m not packing up the car. I walk into town, grab a free croissant half at the cafe and swing by the town offices. By now, I’m used to being here. If I can’t get out, I’ll paint the house’s peeling windows upstairs, and read Ann Tyler. (In perhaps the happiest development of the week, the local library’s open.)

Today, however, there’s a way out: north, opposite the direction I need. Working backwards from a set of directions going the other way, a volunteer outlines the most convoluted route I’ve ever seen. Route 100 is washed out in several places, requiring detours onto what locals are pleased to call “back roads.”

First detour’s Maston Hill Road–which turns out to be mud and gravel, with the backward incline of a roller coaster. (So much for my healing back.) At at least one point, I travel over a drainage ditch with only a shallow mud covering. I hope the way is right. I don’t want to see this road again.

It isn’t, and I’ll see it again twice. I wind up on a familiar stretch in Hancock, one town up. I stop the car and look around, from the glass studio to a building opposite to a house in between. As I ponder which to approach, a young woman, followed by a tall, thin guy, leaves the house, carrying a baby in a car seat.

The man gives me directions even more convoluted than the first, involving roads with names like Puddledock; a commons, a “T” shape, loops. Then a miracle happens, the kind of luck I’ve only heard about: They’re going my way. I can follow them to the highway.

I’ve never been more certain of anything: If not for these people, I’d remain in Rochester, Vermont, indefinitely. The way proves intricate beyond description—but, with my new friends leading, the inclines didn’t feel as steep, nor the curves so winding. Sometimes, the man gestures out the window while his companion drives, and I can’t tell whether he means for me to veer off. I stick with them. At last, they signal left and point right. I pull up and thank them for more or less saving my life. Then, I drive north into Waterbury for the trip home. (Back in Boston, Dave will say it was the Madonna who led me home. “Well,” I’ll answer, “the guy did have long hair.”)

Furniture and building materials litter the streets of Waterbury. Young people pass back and forth across the street. It looks like any first week of college–but of course, it’s storm damage.

In southern New Hampshire, I squeeze one last call from the near-dead cell. “Well, well,” my husband answers.

TUESDAY:
Morning. I remember yet another way out of town, for a total of four potential routes. I don a spare sweater (What the well-dressed refugee is wearing, I think) and drive into town. Someone says the grocery’s opening for a short while, cash only. I run into my editor friend and other neighbors, who tell me my plan won’t work. All roads are gone. I join the supermarket queue and cry. Not the way I generally try to impress editors. Another woman and I realize aloud that others have lost their homes; we have nothing to cry about. But we do it all the same.

It always looks ridiculous when people stress about getting home to their stupid work. But it’s been a lean year (for the first time, I’ve let my flood insurance lapse), and I finally have assignments. With deadlines.

It’s more than that. It’s primal. I want to go home.

I’m Private Benjamin. Diane Keaton in “Sleeper” (“…I haven’t had a bath in eight hours…”). Sam Waterston in The Killing Fields:”[but] I’m an American!” Mostly, I am Dorothy in Oz, dropped into brilliant Technicolor beauty with true friends, yearning all the same for the gray tones of home.

The line moves agonizingly slowly. Two hours for me; longer for others. It’s hot. Store staff comes around, giving away water bottles, fruit, cookies. I grab an apple and water and realize I’m usually on the other end of charity. But everyone needs help sometime.

I discover the reason for the line’s sluggishness: staff are admitting two customers at a time, accompanying us and recording purchases. (Perishables are free, up to three of any item per customer.) As we walk the aisles in the dark, I think out loud: “Oh; an orange. That would be good. But wait: they make garbage. Though, now that I think about it, orange peels might make the garbage smell better.” (I don’t enjoy regular trash pickup. At the moment, I keep garbage in the fridge til the trip home. Only, at the moment, everything in the refrigerator is garbage.)

Apparently, volunteers went house-to-house yesterday, informing townspeople of a meeting. I didn’t get the memo. Word, however, is that there’s another today, at the church.

Town offices become the central hub. I stop in to ask about getting word to my husband and family that I’m OK. A guy I don’t know offers a ride to Bethel Mountain Road. I can borrow his cell phone. I hesitate–not so much about riding with a stranger as traveling the Mountain Road. My last car overturned there.

Ross Laffan is a nice guy. We don’t have to drive far to get a signal. I get out and, from a grassy, quiet hill, call Dave, ask him to get word to my family that I’m all right, and to post on my writers forum on my behalf. I say I’ll try to make it home tomorrow.

“I got in touch with your friend Rachel and some of your neighbors,” Dave says. What? How? The cell tower’s out. Phones are out. Electricity, too. “Well, I am a reporter.” I’ll learn later that he’s called the National Guard, Red Cross, AmTrak (which informs him that the nearest station is “submerged”), and friends with a light truck.

Dave asks if I have food (he teases me often about my constant “snacks”). I tell him I’m doing all right. (My food needs are kind of special. My Perricone-inspired diet is out the window, of course, but I won’t touch anything canned or vacuum packed; nor beef. Which lets out most of the plentiful community offerings, from the church to the inn to the restaurants. Good free food can be had at all–but I end up accepting only bread.

At the town meeting, neighbors tell me my husband’s been trying to get in touch. Rachel’s shocked that he got her cell number. (Later, he’ll tell me his secret: He opened my phone book and began dialing numbers with Vermont area codes.)

Inside the church, it’s hot–still late August, after all–and packed to the rafters. I don’t remember much, only town select board chair Larry Strauss saying all roads are closed, east, west, north and south. He gets an unintended laugh by saying that some folks are trying to get Dr. Jewitt, the local doctor, into town on a four wheeler. Someone’s got a mounted camera. I remove my glasses.

Disaster guys (FEMA? Staties?) wear grim faces. Power? “Three to six months,” one deadpans. He can’t mean this. Oh, and more rain’s predicted for the weekend.

Art gallery owner Anni MacKay takes an inventory of medications needed. A man who’s had to leave his home reports wholesale looting. Someone suggests a watch committee. Someone else says we should remember how everyone, for the most part, is pulling together.

How I’d always imaged long-term power outage in Vermont: Trekking through drifts of white snow, bringing bread I’ve baked to all my near neighbors. Reality: My stove is electric. I don’t help many people (though I do manage a few good turns) and generally fall to pieces even though my house and I are fine, as far as I can tell.

Can anyone volunteer space in his or her home? I fear the risk, though I’d welcome the company. I compromise: give my handyman, who has a key, a short list of people authorized to stay in my absence. Turns out few, if any, end up staying with strangers.

A call goes out for mealtime volunteers at The Park House, the local private senior residence in the heart of town. This, I can do. A woman leads me by the hand to a whiteboard.

I’ve always felt comfortable at the Park House and drop by often to visit. Jeanie’s mom lives here. I try to tell her she must have been a great mom, because Jeanie shows a nurturing spirit, holding my hand on the market line and assuring everyone that we’ll be fine. And making sure to buy “kid food” so her children won’t see this disaster as frightening. I can’t get out the words without crying again.

Evelyn, the cook, is stranded like me; there’s no longer a road to her home in Pittsfield. My stylist lives in Pittsfield in a mobile home; I’m worried for her.

Evelyn’s a lively lady. We get to talking about cleaning our refrigerators and, when I reveal that I don’t have trash pickup, she shows me where the Park House throws its garbage, and invites me to deposit mine there, too. A godsend!

The joy of the evening comes in the person of a second Evelyn, who arrives bearing a beautiful soup. We “click” immediately, riffing with each other, inventing silly lyrics to “Love and Marriage,” celebrating the union of soup and sandwich (which go together like…soup and sandwich).

The food doesn’t interest me, and I’m not in the mood for a crowded community potluck at the Huntington House. I stop at my favorite local restaurant, The Porch. Only the hostess, Toni, and chef, Michael, are there. Michael offers gorgeous meat entrees–including another delicious-looking soup–from the gas stove. I say bread would be simplest, and choose from bags of defrosted rolls and bagels.

Home again, I worry some. If I had a heart attack–or if a criminal, emboldened by the unchanging darkness, broke a window and got in–I couldn’t call for help. I place the car alarm in close reach and remind myself that’s only a possibility; my need for adequate sleep is a certainty. Surprisingly, my flashlights have held up well, and I’m lucky to find a new package of D cells in the house. (The hardware store’s open in the dark and I’m delighted–mostly because I’m out of cash–to see my friend Donna behind the counter. They’re out of D bats, though. On the plus side, I get the opportunity to do a good turn: lend our car cell-phone charger to a woman in need.)

MONDAY:
Morning. I discover my neighbor Arlene was right! My windows are intact. Miraculously, the pond and lake on my neighbor’s and my properties have disappeared.

The shower water’s cold. I skip it and realize I could save a lot of time without a daily shower.

I pack my things, place an item in the mailbox and load the car. It’s obvious there’s no road to the south. I’ll have to take the long way. I give my neighbors, David and Sandy, a big smile. Survived the big storm. See ya.

David says there’s no passage around the mountain, either. I imagine the local cafe, lit by generator, serving waffles and French toast. In my vision of a day stuck in town, I’m on my laptop, writing articles via wifi. Sandy tells me the cell tower’s been knocked out. David adds that the local hotel is providing free breakfast.

I’m late, and the offerings have dwindled, but I’m grateful for the oatmeal and muffin. I drift to the bakery, open in the dark. Dawn, behind the counter, doesn’t know how long they’ll be open. There’s no running water (a surprise, as my house has it. I’ll learn that, through some quirk of fate, each of us has a different advantage, like twisted superheroes. I can flush. Jeanie has no water, but does have a working gas stove and can cook. Rachel’s staying with friends who have solar power, and can make and receive calls. Several people have grills and generators–though these won’t last long without fuel.) Dawn says there are plenty of sandwiches–but I need food that will keep, doesn’t need cooking, and won’t attract mice. This is the country, after all.

She points me toward power bars, granola, popcorn, chips: stuff I wouldn’t touch any day of the year but my birthday–maybe. I choose the lowest-sugar offerings I can find: raw food bars and chips, plus a tin of candy for a neighbor. I discover that, however hungry you are, raw food bars will not tempt. I can’t find enough cash on my person, but am a regular. Dawn records my purchases on paper.

Back at the house, I think: I know! I’ll drive north, get the highway in Waterbury. I’ll feel more awake and the roads will be better tomorrow. I’ve bought old newspapers to stave off boredom, and read every page, even sports. Apparently, some ball player’s wanted for murder.

SUNDAY:
Morning. I drive into town, fill the car and buy two gallons of water. I park at the end of the driveway, for easy egress, though I’m a little worried about the phone pole and mailbox.

Dave and I talk by phone. The storm’s passed him. Although not all of our fellow Massachusetts residents enjoyed such luck, there’s power in our apartment, and nothing amiss. Dave tells me the storm has changed course and is moving toward Vermont.

I do laundry for an upcoming trip, boil a couple of eggs and put on a pot of quinoa and farmers-market vegetables in case the power goes.

I reach my folks in their car. Power and water went out at their hotel. They’re heading back toward Long Island. I invite them to Vermont.

It rains. A lot. It looks as if the Atlantic Ocean has overturned somehow, onto my house. I work. Power goes out at 4. I keep busy, painting chairs and woodwork.

Dave and I talk again. I look out the window. The neighbors across the street to my north look as if they have lakefront property. Two houses down, there’s a river. My side yard is nearly submerged. Panic rises with the water. My financial troubles arrived at the same time as my hefty flood insurance bill.

I’m alone in a darkening house. I imagine the whole place tumbling from the volume of water. Or bills mounting into the tens of thousands. I cry into the phone that I’m alone and scared. David begs my father’s number. A Florida resident, Dad has seen dozens of hurricanes and will know what to do. I give it, on condition he not tell my father I’m upset.

Dad calls my cell. We decide I’ll evacuate for the evening, if only I can find out where people are going. I reach the Park House, and am told; the school.

I sling my folding cot onto my shoulder, grab a sleeping bag, gather a few things and head out, imagining a convivial, if subdued, generator-lit gathering.

I run into neighbors, one of whom asks if I’m carrying a saxophone. I explain that, when I bought the house, I didn’t have a bed and slept on a cot. I’m sure any shelter supplies are limited, so I’ll bring my own.

Other neighbors offer shelter in their homes–but they’re across the street, backing up to the river. I press on to the school, down the block. Water has risen all the way up to it. No one’s inside.

Down the street, the road ends in a lake. This road has been known to flood before. I’ll have to take the long way home tomorrow.

On the return trip, a woman in a van offers a ride. I tell her about the empty school. “I told him to stay there!” she says. Turns out there were few takers. Word among the neighbors is that a couple of houses farther up the road have washed away. Coffins have even slid out of their plots.

The rain seems to be abating–but strong winds are on the way. I fear broken windows. Arlene, who’s lived here all her 76 years, assures me this won’t happen, despite the fact that my attic window’s so flimsy, I once accidentally pushed one of its panes clear out. I go home and close all curtains, just in case.

Crews have already assembled, working on the flooded road. Cars line up all the way to my house.

I think about what my infinitely kind maternal grandmother would have done. I approach the lead guy and invite him and the crew to use my house as a command post. “I can’t make you coffee or tea,” I say, “but you can sit down and get warm, use my bathrooms.” I tell him the door will be locked, but to knock. I run home and scrub my toilets in the dark.

I have never slept here in the dark and find I’m comforted by the line of trucks and cars, their lights on, stretching from my house to the flood. Still, I second-guess my offer. Why did I invite strange men into my home when it’s dark and I can’t use the phone? (It’s a moot question. Either no one shows up, or I sleep through the knocks.) The rain continues til about one.

SATURDAY:
Dave has insisted on keeping our iPhone, in anticipation of Hurricane Irene knocking out power in Boston. But I need it to show my editor friend my app. We agree that he’ll FedEx our old one. I wait, decorating, painting and laying the groundwork for articles due next week. I’m grateful for the work.

FRIDAY:
Dave refuses to accompany me to Vermont, preferring to remain in Boston. I drive to Rochester, go into town and get my hair done. Lou, my stylist, is watching Carolina’s hurricane coverage on her computer. So far, nothing much is expected here. Another customer comes in with an ice cream. Lou and I talk about Creemees, a local soft-serve sensation. I’ve been diligently eating vegetables, olive oil and so on, and think I’ll reward myself on the trip back to Boston.

In town, I run into my editor friend, Jeanie, with whom I have a meeting planned. She says to call her at work on Monday and we’ll get some lunch.

I speak with my mother and stepfather, who’ve been evacuated from Long Island and booked a hotel room in Connecticut for themselves and my special-needs brother. They ask whether I have food, water and gasoline. I say, “some.” I invite them to wait out the storm with me in Vermont. They decline. A new neighbor drops by to chat.

THURSDAY:
My dad emails: a hurricane is heading for Boston. My husband and I should take refuge at our second home in Vermont. I’m planning to go to Vermont that weekend, anyway, for a business meeting.

After:
Turns out, my parents and their friends have been worrying, praying and, in one case, lighting a candle (I’m an atheistic Jew, by the way) and in another, trying to rally her church group to rescue me. My mother forwards emails expressing hope for my safe return. Friends, too, have been talking with Dave (a good development; normally, he’s solitary and shy). He’s posted updates on Facebook and the writers forum. God bless him, he has a hot meal waiting for me. He’s bonded with my parents, keeping in frequent contact by phone.

Vermont casualties are few, but the damage is vast. (many ways to help.)

What I kept thinking:
“This was a real, truly live place. And I remember that some of it wasn’t very nice–but most of it was beautiful. But just the same, all I kept saying to everybody was, ‘I want to go home!’ And they sent me home.”
– (Wizard of Oz screen writers include Noel Langley, Florence Ryerson, and Edgar Allan Woolf.)

My friend Al Hoff in Pittsburgh shared this with me today, and I thought that I’d pay it forward by sharing it with you. According to Al, who you might know better as the woman behind the zine empire once known as Thrift Score, the photo was snapped in a Reading, PA art space called GoggleWorks. Years ago, it would seem, the building housing the gallery used to be home to the Willson Safety factory, which produced helmets, goggles, and other forms of safety gear, like the heavy-duty plastic boob shield you see above.

I’ve been spending the last hour, looking for information on the Saf-t-Bra… hopeful of finding at least one article about a nipple that was saved in a bottling line mishap… but, so far, I’ve been unsuccessful. I can’t even determine what became of the company. I’ve found one relatively recent reference to a Wilson Safety Products in Reading, but I haven’t been able to substantiate it. I’m thinking about sending a letter to the address tomorrow on official MarkMaynard.com letterhead, asking form more information on the Saf-t-Bra. If I get a response, I’ll print it here. (I know it’s likely that none of you care, but the international oil services corporation Schlumberger also seems to have a Wilson Safety subsidy, so I suppose that the company could have been acquired at some point. Or, it could be a different company altogether. Regardless, my guess is that all of their products are now made in China… I’d like to stop looking for clues as to what happened to the Reading company, but my OCD won’t let me.)

It’s times like these, I regret not getting my PhD, and becoming a professor of American Studies somewhere. I’m confident that there’s a book in the history of the Saf-t-Bra.

Oh, and I’d appreciate it if, one of these days, someone would remind me to interview Al about her ongoing quest to participate in each Project Runway challenge at home, constructing outfits for her Barbie doll.

update: OK, I found an image of a breast protection device in use. This version, though, which has a clearly different design, may not have been produced by Wilson. [This photo, which comes courtesy of the National Archives, is from what, during the second World War, was called the Women's Bureau.]

update: Fortunately, research in the area of safety bras did not end with the World War II. Here’s video evidence.

The setup is pretty simple. It’s just a few square feet of space, set off by velvet ropes. There are two armchairs, with a small table in between. I don’t know if the other guys plan to charge, but I might, at least at the beginning, ask people for a dollar to be interviewed. (I’ll post the interviews online.) So, if you’re around tomorrow, and would like to have me ask you questions, stop by early in the day, before the area morphs into either a, “Clip Mark Maynard’s Toenails” booth, or a “Confess Your Sins to a Stranger” pavilion.

And, remember, when you come out to Ypsi for the Shadow, to bring your coupon for The Rocket.

See you tomorrow.