Now, being a heavy sleeper, I tend to miss out on a lot of the nighttime storms that we encounter. But not last night. I went to bed sometime around 10pm. At 10:30, I awake with what must be the most excruciating acid reflux known to man. After a couple of tums and some water, I attempt to go back to sleep. Our window is open, and I enjoy the nice night air (not to cold or to warm, but the kind that you can just fall asleep with.) And I did. Until approximately 2:30am. Bright periodically flashing light pulled me out of my dream and I awoke to the sound of deep thunder rumbling some 10 miles away. And then I remember our vehicle is not under the carport because the kids' bikes are much more important and take up too much room -- and the windows are down. I throw on my housecoat, grab the keys and venture outdoors where a light rain is falling. I set in the drivers seat to roll up the windows and get my first rude awakening: A wet Ass! I get back inside, strip down to my birthday suit and climb back in bed, searching desperately for the warmth of my husband. Laying there, listening and getting warm, I think about the continuing thunder: What a great way to fall back to sleep. I pull the covers over my eyes and let the sound of thunder take me away.
But the night would not remain so peaceful. At 4 something in the morning, my husband jumps awake, rain pouring in our window (keep in mind, the head of our bed is right in front of the window) and I slam the window shut. I see the trees, lit by the streetlights, blowing and bending in the most horrible positions and fear the worst. TORNADO! I've seen strong winds and strong storms, but this I feared the most. Our home. Our refuge. Our place of rest and comfort, now fighting for it's right to remain standing as the winds threaten it's very existence.
We wake up the kids (which is not an easy task when the sleep like their mother) and get them into our hall. Blankets and pillows and tear-filled eyes fill my vision as I look at my beautiful children. Inside I say a quick prayer as I hold onto my husband's hand. No radio to hear the weather, no possible way to hear the sirens, should they sound. But in the comfort of my own home, with the people I love the most, I can think of no place I'd rather be.
And just like that, it was over. The winds calmed, the rain slacked, and my heart returned to a somewhat normal rhythm. Returning the children to the rooms, kissing their foreheads and washing away their fears, they fall back to sleep. Husband and I, on the other hand, turn on the television to see what just went over and to prepare if more storms are headed our way. "Moderate rain continues to fall across Region 8 as the leading edge of this storm moves east, across the Mississippi river", says our local weatherman. And the radar shows a clearing, a break in the storm and clear skies. A calmness falls over me. Knowing that my husband and brother had just repaired some shingles on our roof a week ago, I think about it, but then pass that notion out the window. There is no way we could have damage, I think quickly and proceed to fill my coffee cup with liquid stimulation.
Until the break of dawn, when we realize that repairs are needed often, sometimes, a week apart from one another. When the sun made it's way to the horizon, casting soft light over the scene, shingle upon shingle lay crumpled in our front yard, as if they were socks thrown by a sports player who doesn't clean up after himself. Once all signs of the storm have passed, we venture outside to survey the house. And this is what we find.
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| Shingles missing from our roof, in large quantities. |
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| Our Crabapple tree is uprooted. |
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| Just a couple of the many shingles we found laying in our front yard. |
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| Another angle of the down Crabapple tree. |
So as I write this blog, the sun is shining. The rain has stopped and a Dove sits on my bird feeder, pecking away at his seeds. Just a sign from above that everything will be OK.
Until tomorrow,
LaVonda
