The release of the movie Gatsby has heaped fresh interest on the burial site of F Scott Fitzgerald, the book’s author. Along with the mound of old articles about his final resting place, a pile of new ones have popped up. (Ok, enough puns.) The early 20th century writer, who was known for his penchant for alcohol and glamorous world capitals, interred in a suburban Rockville graveyard, surrounded by concrete buildings and beside the intersection of busy highways? How absurdly mundane!
For a thunderstorm that lasted barely an hour and half, last Friday’s derecho sure caused a lot of havoc in the D.C. region. Most people were quite likely enjoying their Friday evenings like they always do. I was at home, getting ready for a trip the next day, when it hit. The sound of gushing winds prompted me to leave my packing and look out the window.
Wish I hadn’t, because I immediately felt like I was on a ship, riding angry waves and beating back relentless wind and torrential rain. Trees were swaying wildly, making disconcerting crackle sounds as they went. On Rockville Pike, cars were going slowly; a couple of drivers had stopped on the side of the road, unsure of how to navigate in the storm. I hadn’t paid attention to news about the weather lately and thought that we were being hit by a hurricane. I panicked.