Goodnight Irene

Considering the alternatives, I’ll say I’m happy to be high and dry today. Plus, I already got through Snowmageddon last year, so I’m done with disasters, natural or otherwise.

But Irene’s approach the last few days had me thinking about September 1996, and dealing with the remnants of Hurricane Fran. Actually, we had a big snowstorm the previous winter that was followed by serious flooding, so I wonder if these things do in fact run in cycles.

We were about six months into the regime change at the Page News and Courier when Fran struck, but certain things transcend work environments, poor or not, and covering a big story is definitely one of them. I grabbed my camera about 10 a.m. that Friday and walked to the office, crossing the Main Street bridge over Hawksbill Creek and getting a last look at two buildings that would be part of the waterway about six hours later.

At some point, my compatriot at the paper, Jeb Caudell; WLCC news director Jeff Stapleton and I piled into Jeb’s pickup and surveyed the damage just north of Luray. We were probably out for an hour or so, I remember going out to Jim Logan’s place to see how they were doing out there and then not being able to take U.S. 211 back into Luray because the Hawksbill had already left its banks and flooded Bulldog Field. Jeb got a three-inch-long gash on his arm from a Brookside sign he wanted to use to brace himself as he got one last photo before we used Collins Avenue to get back into town.

But we were shocked…and had to stop…when we could see the football stadium below us was under nine feet of water. After taking more photos, we went to Jeb’s townhouse, next to Hardees, which appeared to be one of the few places in town that still had power. Since the cable was out, we thought we’d try to head south toward Stanley and get more photos, but the creek had left us unable to get out of town. The Main Street bridge was underwater and some loose propane tanks caused police to close the bypass, so we were stuck in town.

The next few hours are a blur. With the power out, we had just one working phone at the Page News. Eventually, the creek went down enough that police allowed me to cross the Main Street bridge and get home about 6 p.m. Within another hour, the power was actually back (one of the great things about living on the main drag). Cable was out until Sunday, but it was restored just in time for the Redskins’ game.

Jeff, Larry and I actually went to Baltimore on Saturday to see the Orioles and Angels, having to use Browntown Road as a detour around the South Fork of the Shenandoah River, which had flooded U.S. 340. So it was not until Sunday afternoon that the true damage outside of Luray became apparent to me.

About lunchtime, while waiting for the Redskins game to start, I got a call from Gov. George Allen’s press secretary, Ken Stroupe, a Stanley native. He said the governor would be flying into Page County later in the afternoon and they would keep me up to date on where to meet up with them. They wanted to land the helicopter at Bulldog Field, but it was still under water, so instead the chose to stop at Mountain View Parks, a pair of private softball fields on the north end of Stanley. There, Jeff and I met up with the governor, two Page County supervisors and a pool cameraman from Channel 12. Escorted by a couple of state police cars, we went back into Pine Grove, where the destruction wreaked by the Hawksbill, fed by a foot of rain up in Shenandoah National Park, was amazing.

I took a few photos of the governor walking along a rocky ledge to get to the front porch of one family. By this time I was also getting a little antsy since I was due at the radio station at 6 p.m., even though the transmitter had been without power for the past two days.

When we got back to Stanley, I headed back up Leakesville Road and got to WLCC in time to relieve Larry. Most of the next five-plus hours was spent answering the phone. “Yes, Wrangler is closed. No, I don’t know when we’ll be back on the air.” About 11:30, they got the power back to the transmitter, so we went commercial-free for the next two and half hours passing along boil water advisories, school closings and the number for FEMA. By 2 a.m., I signed off and went by the emergency operations center for one last conversation before heading home.

It was quite a storm, and we had stories in the weeks and months to follow, but there’s nothing like covering spot news. Sometimes I miss the thrill, which is why it was a blast (I’m sorry) when that guy tried to blowup his house in Stephens City about five years ago.

On the other hand, I’m happy to let the folks in D.C. take the lead on this one.

Blowhards

So I went to Harrisburg with a half-dozen friends on Saturday so we could see Nats prospect Bryce Harper play for the Senators. As usual, I brought along a stack of cards with hopes of getting at least a few signed. I knew early on there would be an issue in this regard.

It was pouring when we got to the stadium, but the tarp was down and they were able to get the field ready in plenty of time for the players to stretch and start playing catch. Standing next to me was a rather large guy with a heavy New York accent who was telling anyone who would listen, as well as those who wanted him to just shut up, that all the players were prima donas and nobody was going to sign. For 20 minutes. Nonstop. All I could think was that if I was a player and heard this guy, I probably WOULD just keep walking.

I managed to get a couple of cards signed by Harrisburg pitcher Cory Van Allen, and was pleased to catch up with him. This caught the blowhard by surprise, but not as much as when he saw Harper sign for about a dozen people near first base before coming back toward the dugout. In front of he two of us, Harper also signed a mini-bat for a little girl before going to the bench. None of this bothered me in the least, I'm always happy when anyone stops to say hello and sign a couple of cards. But this appeared to greatly offend the blowhard.

During the game he kept telling people Harper "blew me off" for an autograph. No, I think he was as responsible for not getting an autograph as anyone else out there.

My perspective on this thing has also been affected by a good experience at a couple of games this week. The main difference? No blowhard getting in the way.

’Appy to oblige

My minor league baseball adventures took me south and west of Winchester last weekend, taking of an opportunity to triple the number of Appalachian League teams I’ve seen in one day.

That’s right. Triple.

First, a little background. The Appy and the Pioneer leagues share the bottom rung of the climb to the majors. Technically, the Gulf Coast and Arizona leagues are lower, but their games are free-admission affairs played at noon on the back fields at the spring training complexes. That means the players who take the field in places like Missoula and Bluefield have begun their trek toward stardom.

But it’s still a long trip, and when you are a Mariner in Pulaski, 3,000 miles from Seattle, it can seem like an uphill climb. And it is, because Everett, Beloit, High Desert, Jackson and Tacoma all stand in your way.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves. Somehow over the years I had managed to see seven of the eight teams in the Pioneer (I’m coming after you Helena!) but only two in the Appy, despite the fact that the Pulaski Mariners are just 210 miles from here (yes, that IS closer than Idaho Falls). Steven and I stopped in Danville to see the Braves play the Bluefield Orioles eight years ago, and I had been meaning to see more of the teams that are spread between Tennessee, North Carolina and the Virginias, but never got around to it. Until Sunday.

I set out at 10 a.m., and managed to reach Princeton, W.Va., a shade over four hours later. The Rays were hosting the Greeneville Astros, and for $5 I got a box seat, and another $4 got me two slices of pizza and a can of root beer. Greeneville blew the game open with a hit-and-mistake fueled, five-run fourth inning. I had to hit the road at the start of the eighth, but the final score was the same 8-3 it was when I headed down I-77 to Pulaski.

There I found a gem of a ballpark that I cannot wait to visit again next summer. Sadly for the Mariners, they committed six errors in the first three innings, and despite out-hitting Elizabethton, the Twins managed an easy 11-3 win. I also got to see Cory Williamson, a former Winchester Royal, pitch two innings for Elizabethton, so there was a local element to the trip.

By the way, admission to Calfee Park was $4, and a bratwurst and a Coke set me back another $4. Since there was no parking fee at either venue, I managed to hit two games and get eats for $17. Now THAT’s a great price.

The gasoline for a 500-mile round trip on the other hand….