THE SIX PHASES OF SANDY
Originally published in Horse Directory, December
2012
By Tom Gumbrecht
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| "So that's what the noise was about last night" - Bella |
To those of us who keep horses, the
forecast of a hurricane or other severe weather can carry an extra level of
anxiety. In addition to the safety of ourselves
and our families, we also have to consider the well-being of our large,
not-easily-evacuated equine companions. We
realize we may be forced to consider the choice to yield to pressure to
evacuate and leave our horses to fend for themselves, or to go with our
instincts to stay and protect them as best we can, no matter what. Hurricane Sandy was not my first major storm
since having horses at home. In dealing
with the threat of potentially catastrophic weather, I seem to go through a
process of six phases: Awareness,
Denial, Fear, Action, Focus, and Acceptance.
The time elapsed between the first phases was days; between the final
phases only minutes..
Awareness
comes as I hear the first TV and internet inklings of the possibility of a
severe weather system. I react like a
horse hearing a sound that may be of concern: I turn my ear toward it. My concern is there, but it is in the
background. At some point my awareness morphs into denial. The hype of TV or internet weather services seems to go “over
the top” and use terms like “doomsday”, “monster storm”, and “perfect
storm”. I steadfastly refuse to get
sucked into what I perceive might be ratings- driven drama. My seeming apathy
masquerades as skepticism but has its roots in fear.
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| A cracking tree is scary for horse or human! |
When fear
takes over, I begin to think... “it might actually happen!” Maybe it’s not weather drama this time. What
if it’s true? What will happen if it’s
as bad as the threats suggest? What will happen to my horses and other animals?
My mind rapidly builds a huge wall of worst-case scenarios, but eventually
moves me forward into action. I gather
supplies, gas up the generator, clean the gutters, move vehicles from under
trees, buy batteries, and put ID tags on the horses. I set out old hay bales to protect the riding
ring from erosion and check the barn door latches, as they are rarely used. Motion for the sake of motion is how it
generally begins, as it satisfies the need to “do something.” At some point, my
motions become more organized.
For me, in some cases, organized motion
precedes organized thought: it allows me
to focus. I experience clarity of thought and
efficiency of action. When I am focused, things seem to just fall into place…
and when they do, I gain acceptance. I
accept that it’s happening. I’m prepared. I’m committed, and I’m calm. What will happen,
will happen. I’m glad my animals have me, and I them. I believe that their best shot is with
me. I feel a sense of oneness with my
charges; they sense it and settle into an alert calmness also. And so we wait…
At 3:30 Monday afternoon, through my window
I see the tall, sturdy old trees on the property across the street bending
nearly horizontal. This storm is no joke. A snap, a crash and the lights go
out. My electrical service is on the driveway, and a large tree is on the
garage roof. I go out to survey the
damage, and connect the generator.
Technically the storm isn’t even here yet, and its power is
incredible. My wife Mary had been called
in to work at her job as a nurse at the hospital, and so it is me and our three
dogs huddled closely in the den listening to the radio for updates. Reports are
sketchy, disjointed, and not particularly informative yet I sit listening,
mesmerized, and cannot turn it off. I
begin to consider the safest place in the house to be, and believe that I’m
probably in it. At 7:00 pm, another huge
snap and crash in the rear of the property upsets the dogs and I dress to go
out and investigate. A large tree had
fallen across the farm driveway, and sat covering half of the front paddock,
smashing 30’ of fence on the way down. I
retreat from the winds into the barn to check on how my horses are tolerating
the meteorological mayhem outside their windows. DannyBoy, our big gregarious Paint, seems
unaffected, which is not surprising to me.
I find it curious that our normally somewhat high strung young OTTB
Mare, Lola, has kept her wits about her also.
Bella, our Arabian mare, is visibly upset, uncharacteristically pacing
circles in her stall. I stay with her for a while in her stall. She stops the pacing but I feel the tension
in her neck that she has, again uncharacteristically, allowed me to cradle in
my arms. After some time has passed, I give them hay to take their focus off of
the crazed howling of the wind just outside.
It seems to work. I hate to leave
but I need to check on my dogs in the house.
My female German Shepherd Dog, Zoe, does not do well with the intense, strange
noises that the high winds are pummeling the house with. Dusty, our male Labrador and Hailey, a female
lab mix, seem unaffected. They all seem
to want to be on my lap at the same time.
At another time it would be funny; now I find it comforting. I wait with my lamp, my dogs and my radio
until after midnight, when the reports say the very worst of the storm has
passed. I do one more barn check, and everyone
seems to be ok. My one concern is that Bella has not dropped manure, but she is
drinking water and has good gut sounds.
I feel confident enough to say good night to my charges.
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| Bella surveys the damage... |
I drift in and out of sleep. An occasional gust is strong enough to shake
the house on its foundation, and Zoe wakes me, barking furiously, each time
that happens. Dawn breaks and I get up
and check the fences before letting the dogs out. I can see that the vehicles
and trailers are safe, but the tree that fell into the paddock is actually two
trees, the one at the bottom of the pile being of fairly substantial
girth. I feed the dogs, send Mary a text
with the report that we have survived, and go down to the barn. Everyone there
is fine, but Bella has still not left any manure. I put her on a longe line and trot her for
twenty minutes; she eagerly moves forward with no encouragement so I put her
back in her stall as I isolate the downed trees from the paddock with rope and
jump standards. When I go back inside, I
see that she has left a gift that only a horseman can appreciate: a large pile
of manure on the floor of her stall!
A neighbor later comes over, and armed with
two chain saws, we have the trees cut up and out of the paddock and the fence
repaired in a couple of hours. An electrician by trade, I put the electrical
service back together and connect the still de-energized power lines. Without TV or newspaper, I have not yet seen
images of the destruction that had befallen the island, but within hours my
phone begins ringing off the hook with pleas from customers to help them to
restore electrical service. That ends up
to be just the prelude to a 12 hour/ day, 14 day straight electrical marathon
that was to follow. The days that ensued
were surreal, working under headlights in third-world like conditions with
whatever equipment and material that could be scrounged.
My reprieve was to be found in the
beginning and the end of each day, exhausted, overworked and overcommitted, yet
stopping first at the barn to feed, care for, and simply be with our
horses. They tethered me back to reality
just by being there, and being who they were.
They have no care or concern for what is going on outside of their stalls,
paddocks and arena. Their needs are the
same today as they were on the day before the storm: hay, grain, clean water, the
shelter of a clean stall, some attention and some exercise. By expecting, even demanding routine, they
brought me back to normalcy every morning, and every evening. ..at least for a
little while. That is the way my horses
give their gifts: they demand routine of
me, the execution of which provides the gift of normalcy. It’s the best deal I have ever made.
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| A feral cat gives up her hobo existence for a night to ride out the hurricane in the tack room.. |
