Sandy comes to Princeton

My household came through relatively well. The enormous tree that broke near the bottom of its trunk in our backyard never made it to the ground. It became the tree of Damocles, suspended in a cradle of surprisingly strong vines, and did no damage. As for the big hunk of evergreen that actually aimed at our house, it managed to bash only the rain gutter, not to crush the master bedroom. We spent three nights and days without power: The nights were so dark that they reminded me of the West African town where our daughter taught in the Peace Corps, and the house gradually became pretty chilly.

Still, we had water and gas throughout, so we never lacked the staff of life, hot coffee, or hot meals. The basement, which houses our Bibliotheca subterranea, stayed dry. Even going without television had its good side. We had no idea what was happening, but we also couldn’t waste hours watching reporters in Palm Beach crash helmets screaming “We’re all gonna die!”

Mrs. G., otherwise known as Louise the Pioneer Woman, turned out to have devices for every contingency: plenty of candles, a strap-on headlamp for reading and an ancient portable DVD player. Learning how to cook in a pitch dark kitchen was interesting, for a while. So was trying to find out what was happening in the world, with only one working smart phone. Neighbors’ offers of help cheered us.

As the house gradually cooled and the refrigerator gradually warmed, the novelty faded. Wednesday, when we learned that some buildings on campus still had power, we immediately headed uptown. Firestone Library looked like the London underground during the Blitz (with laptops). But it was warm and bright, and everyone seemed cheerful, at least on the first day (by Thursday, just before the lights came back in our neighborhood, a certain peevishness made itself felt, and wails of “I hate going to bed at 9 o’clock” were heard here and there).

As we learned the full story from the newspapers that resumed delivery long before we had Internet access, we realized how lucky we had been. We can’t stop thinking about some of the terrible stories, like that of the mother whose two small children were torn from her arms by a wave. And we can’t stop admiring the courage and competence of so many of those who dealt with the disaster, in big ways and small — from the New York hospital staff who formed bucket brigades to deliver vital oxygen and other supplies to bedsides to the authorities who made the inhabitants of Breezy Point evacuate.

Everyone we heard from over our suddenly vital landline — the University authorities, the police, the town government, PSE&G — seemed to be acting sensibly and offering excellent advice. Our local grocery store had prepared by installing a generator and stocking immense amounts of ice to help people preserve their food. Disaster unites us: The Land of the Sopranos temporarily became The Land of Concerned Government and Drivers Who Let Other People In Because There Are No Traffic Lights.

In the long run, though, things don’t look so good. Princeton’s a pretty, manicured town, much of which has changed little since the Second World War. Yet an event like this — coming on top of Irene and the storm that devastated the graduate student housing in Butler Apartments not long ago, and many another — makes you wonder how solid all the handsome scenery really is. The modern American suburb, with its “stick-built” houses surrounded by trees that become more dangerous as they grow more ancient and beautiful, seems surprisingly fragile, once the weather starts testing it, and all the more so if, as it seems, the weather is becoming more variable and intense.

It’s not news that central New Jersey’s climate can be pretty severe. Einstein owned an old German encyclopedia from which he liked to cite the article on Princeton. It noted the existence of a small college, but also pointed out that the town’s climate was unfit for human habitation. No argument here. You can’t help wondering if those who manage our systems for transmitting power and communications have noticed quite how variable and harsh our weather is. After all, the people who lay the paths on the Princeton campus have evidently never noticed that it rains here.

But this looks like a bigger problem — a problem bigger than Princeton, or New Jersey or the United States. I wonder how, or if, we’re going to deal with it.

Anthony Grafton is the Henry Putnam University Professor of History. He can be reached at grafton@princeton.edu.