Thursday, August 19, 2004

The landscape had changed.

Where once had been the smooth complexion of orderly neighborhoods and stately oaks, there was now an acne of tree stumps, trash piles and potholed asphalt.

As power crept back into more darkened homes and debris was stuffed into bulging dump trucks, Thursday was about picking up and soldiering on.

Normality. It was something almost in grasp.

As we commuted to work, Interstate 4 again became a clogged artery. As power hopscotched across neighborhoods, gas stations began to quench the thirsts of motorists. More restaurants, shops and grocery stores flung open their doors.

But there was still horror. Of raw sewage in homes and yards. Of splintered homes and fractured dreams. Of being forgotten.

There were meetings with insurance adjusters, waits for tree crews and applications for FEMA grants. Elderly residents still suffered in the heat; exhausted power workers slept where they could; children out of school rollicked in the last few days of an unexpected vacation.

All we wanted was our lives back. Soccer practice, a cold brew after work, a cool bed at night.

Was that too much to ask?