Sunday evening. Late July humidity seeps into the deep corners of the shade, but the water pump on the minivan needs replaced. Belt has to come off from under the engine. Motor mount has to be removed from above. Three hours of sweat and grease and engine coolant later, mixed with a little knuckle blood, and the new one is on. I’ll wait till morning to see if it actually works, or if I left out a bolt (likely), or if that was even the problem at all. It’s good to be a man.
Almost midnight. Straight-line winds hit the house and the power goes out almost simultaneously. The baby monitor is off so I move to the living room in case she cries. The lightning is strobing through the blinds and thunder is near constant. I head back towards the bedroom and my wife meets me. “You’d better come look out the window.”
Raised blinds reveal tree branches bunched up against the glass like a herd of tweens pressing on the stage at the latest boy band concert. Somewhere under that mass of limbs are two vehicles, but it’s too dark and wet to fix anything tonight, so I go back to bed. I see flashlight beams outside as the neighbors survey the damage, but I know I’ll need sleep to tackle whatever morning brings. It’s good to be a man.
Dawn breaks and my eyelids crack open. Check the outage map on my phone and it’s not just my house. Half the city is down. The driveway is blocked by a thicket of fallen tree. I spot a bird’s nest in the rubble. At least we had it better than the bird. Nothing heavy landed on our house, or the in-law’s house, but others weren’t so lucky. One neighbor’s power line is lying across the road, the riser bent horizontal. One end of the road is blocked by a tree. One house is crumpling beneath an uprooted oak. I’m gonna need a chain saw.
I get to Home Depot early, hoping they have electricity and there’s still a chain-saw or two left. I almost go for the battery operated one before remembering I have no way to charge anything. I meet my neighbor, a Russian who moved his family here from the West Coast to escape the insanity of the progressives, in the chain saw aisle. He’s never used one before, but Vasily is a competent guy. He’ll figure it out. He gets the biggest one they have. I get the cheapest one they have and buy the replacement warranty. We leave with our chainsaws. It’s good to be a man.
Hottest week of the year. Humidity like a tropical jungle and the sun like a searchlight. Driveway first. Break out the cars. The Jeep starts right up and reverses out of the mess. It has some new character, like a damaged hood and broken fender and busted headlight and a passenger door that won’t open. The leaves sticking in through the side of the windshield is a nice decorative touch. But the 5.7 Hemi doesn’t even hesitate and she comes through again for me. The Acura isn’t so lucky. The back windshield is shattered and the trunk is caved in. I loved that little red car, but something tells me I won’t be driving her anymore. Time to see if the new water pump did the trick so we can get the kids somewhere safe and cool for a bit in the van. Success! Man, it’s good to be a man.
Sweat burns my eyes and my muscles are shaking. Enough sawing and chopping: time for the tractor. With the bucket down I don’t even need to shift into low gear for the Bobcat to push the brush up into piles. It can be sorted later. Right now it’s time to get the most done in the shortest amount of time. Across the street, Susie pulls up to the house she and her husband bought in 1967. He passed away last year and she just moved to a condo, her house already under contract. We pull a tree off her roof.
Helping others is more than repaid when a group of firemen pull up to see what they can do to help. Two sharpen chains while three tackle downed trees. Watching these twenty year old guys work reminds me that I’m not twenty anymore, but I’m not defensive. “Anything else we can do? We’re just here to help.” “As much as you want!” Let the young guys tackle ground stuff. I’m going to take my tractor and liberate a powerline.
It’s been about ten hours. My heart, over 25% larger than my wife’s heart (even adjusted for overall body size), outputs massive oxygen to my aching muscles. Even though they aren’t used to this kind of work, I can lift logs and tree branches that my wife would struggle to roll. My sweat comes out faster than hers would, cooling my body. I will lose more water in the heat than she could without collapsing before needing to replenish. My skin is thicker and rougher, more resistant to tears as I wade through the wake of the storm. Testosterone kicks in, pushing me to work harder and later than is wise or reasonable. It’s good to be a man.
Time to stop for the day. Still no electric, but a generator provides enough power for the fridge and one window unit. The older kids stay with their Nana and Papa while we lay in front of the fan, the baby close by. Sweet is the sleep of a laboring man. At 4AM the power kicks back on. Three cheers for City Utilities, then back to sleep to the sweet hum of the central AC unit. Morning breaks and the neighborhood is still a hive of activity. Every pickup, every bucket truck, and every lineman a male. Every tree trimmer a man. Every chain-saw operator (save one) a man. Every fireman a man. The neighborhood is functional again because of men. Men can restore or destroy, repair or ruin, create or quash, design or dissolve. But we cannot be neutral. It will be one or the other. Today was a good day to be a man. Today we chose well.
Three days later and power is restored. Houses, some bent and twisted, have been relieved of their facial hair. Faces are red, tempers are short, and the brush piles tall. This man is ready for a hot meal and a cold drink. For running feet and baby giggles. For a night at home with family. The ones we come home to are the reason why why the power is back on, why the driveway is clear, why the neighborhood is functioning, and why it’s good to be a man.
Nathan Writes 