I woke up a few minutes past three this morning. The wind was huffing and puffing; the house creaking and groaning. I wondered if we’d lose power. I thought about all the storms this old village has withstood and I thought of my Aunt Medora’s letter written when she was 14 to her friends, Elizabeth Ayer and Marie Strock, in Olympia.
Wednesday, September 3, 1913
We are having a regular winter storm. Do you know what a storm is? Not an Oysterville one. You see, we get it from both the ocean and the bay. The wind has already knocked the remainder of our cherry tree down, the cupboard of dishes in Sue’s playhouse toppled over and consequently she will have to abandon her house till next summer; a great piece of the trimmings of our house blew off; apples and pears litter the ground. It is a real storm! The bay is covered with white caps, the water has covered our lower meadow, and you could almost go down the lane leading from our house to the bay in a dinghy. To cap it all, it has rained night and day since Monday evening in regular torrents. It is not an unusual storm. The natives merely remark, “Sort of wet today.”