Of Records

We listened as if the fate of our lives depended upon the report of the meteorologist —which was reported over and over, aided by charts and arrows that moved like darts across the swath of New England. We heard about the characteristics of a blizzard from three different weather people. We watched travelers trapped in airports as the list of cancelled flights grew and later returned to see some bedded down for the night— at the airport. We listened to interviews with individuals whose flight, delayed by the impetuous storm, reacted with calm, frustration, indignation or acceptance of nature's proclivity for upsetting plans. And then, as if the tape rewound, we listened to the meteorologist compare the blizzard, if it attained that stature, to previous storms. We were warned that this storm had an erratic nature. She didn't lay her burden down equally in all areas. We checked our supply of batteries, bought additional cans of tuna, baked an apple pie and a pasta dish, bought bread, checked the date of the large waters, and small seltzers.

Then they began to talk of the possibility of losing power. "Nantucket," a woman wearing a turtleneck sweater and pointing a finger to the island, "is almost completely without power." Of course both Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard, surrounded by water, are prone to pounding waves and fierce winter winds. You too, she intimated, could wake up to a cold house. One news anchor even suggested you take out some extra blankets and have them ready lest the power outage occurs in your neighborhood. So I admit to trudging up to the loft, finding the plastic box containing a heavy winter goose filled comforter, and spreading it out on two chairs. That particular item, purchased before the chicken scare several years ago and the fear of feathers from diseased chickens took hold of some people, remained on the chair all night —next to a flashlight with working batteries. I do admit to buying a down pillow recently with the following words inscribed in two inch high letters on the zippered plastic cover —feathers from Germany.

Every half hour I turned the outside light on and scanned the scene. How much snow balanced on the deck railing? And by the time I turned off the light, and decided not to open the bedroom window a sliver, our railing held a mere five inches. Yes, this was a fickle storm, but they said it would continue through the night and to mid-day.

I'm never sure if I want to reach that high total or be in one of the areas allotted a lesser amount by Mother Nature. In the morning I checked the railing again and measured a snow total of eight inches—a leaning tower of Pisa held to the thin wooden board by sheer tenacity. The storm had given Boston nineteen inches and some areas twenty-one inches. When the meteorologists reported the totals they avoided our area. We didn't earn any mention.

I'm not unhappy. I'll eat the tuna or save it for another possible power outage. We'll finish the apple pie tonight and we ate the pasta for lunch. And shoveling was fairly mundane, which I do appreciate.

The weather people now resort to showing us devastation from mud floods and blizzards in other areas of the country and world. We watch with concern as waves and water destroys homes along the seashore. We watch city dwellers dig their cars out of a pouch of deep snow. After unearthing cars and the parking spaces they occupied, some residents of South Boston placed trashcans or chairs in those spots to hold them until they returned from work. The city recognizing that only the “shoveler” deserves the place allows this arcane custom to exist for several days. No one who values his car or tires would be foolish enough to move one of these saving items and park a car in that space. I imagine it's the same as the lobster fisherman placing his identifying buoy in the water, marking his territory, and reminding scavengers that his traps exist underwater.

Now that all has quieted down I envision the weather people draped over their computers studying models showing weather patterns—anxious to find another imminent storm. During the summer they spend an equal amount of time during a heat spell reminding us of the conditions for something to qualify as a heat wave.

They remind us that this was the tenth highest snow total for Boston. What is there about records? I find records fascinating. Yesterday I read about long sentences—about authors who manage to write a sentence that sustains itself for twenty or thirty pages. There is a record for an English sentence. When Joyce wrote his long train of thought sentences they often meandered for pages. Do we have some criteria for these sentences? I imagine that there are run-ons without literary merit. Joyce's sentences, while sometimes arduous for the reader to follow, repay the work with the lilt and rhythm —as well as the unraveling of meaning.

Who owns the record for the most hot dogs consumed within an allotted time period? Or the greatest number of live worms consumed in a minute? Each day someone in the universe wants to attain a record. By checking in several books you can find some feat that is possible— for you. And this feat must be done in public under the auspices of an individual who attests to the authenticity of the accomplishment. Only when this is done will the individual see her name in print. The Guinness Book of World Records states: " It is possible to hire an adjudicator to verify your record live and on-the-spot. If you know what record you want to break and you have done it before you might want to go for our Basic Adjudication Service where a trained GWR Adjudicator will show up on the day and verify your record on the spot."

Is our society enamored with records because we feel the need to be an individual in a society that homogenizes people? Or do we create records because numbers have an allure—for all manner of people?

Reverend Ken McReynolds, a Church of Ireland minister, successfully talked his way into the record books by giving the longest sermon. The sermon lasted five hours and fifty minutes. Of great note, eight of his parishioners including the loquacious minister's wife, stayed for the entire time. He initially desired to talk for six hours, but acknowledged running out of things to say and not wishing to repeat his thoughts he cut his sermon short.

Last January Jean-Francois Vernetti from Switzerland set a record: He owned 8,888 different "Do Not Disturb" signs from hotels in 189 countries across the world. It took him twenty-five years to accomplish this feat. ...His collection " started when he noticed a spelling error on the one he was using at a hotel in Sheffield, UK."

Why not?

So let the meteorologists seek records and the ordinary mortal find a way to attain momentary immortality —that is until the record topples.