sturm, drang, wal-mart, etc.

In our little corner, Frances was full of less sound, fury and bilge than Zell Miller, but still signified nothing. We didn't even lose power.

I always learn something when I go to Wal-Mart. After a major storm, Wal-Mart is often the only place that is operating. When there's no power, and the cable company is knocked out, and the satellite dishes aren't working, America flocks to Wal-Mart, to watch televisions in the store. We stand gaping, watching sitcoms, music videos, feeling our eyes have been restored. This past weekend we were treated to an ad praising Wal-Mart for being open to serve the public sooner than the Red Cross.

Apart from the food section, the other aisle that comes alive after a storm is full of fishing paraphenalia.

On Sunday, as Frances drove arrays of clouds across the harbor, I took my kid and two more, ages 12, 11, and 10, to the park on the water. The storm was alive in the waves and the air and the clouds. Small birds flew up against the gusting winds and did neat backdives. Trees warped, an overturned boat smashed up against the seawall. The storm entered the kids, running and running like the waves and the clouds and the bruhaha that began not far, perhaps, from St. Helena, where Napoleon's gaze may once have rested on boiling waters promising dreams of far-off havoc.