Wednesday, August 3, 2022, then 8/10!
Where is your storybook life now, Steph?
Two days after a prolonged, three day, super duper weekend away, came storms. Mother Nature brewed three waves of fronts, complete with winds, driving rain and lightning which flashed and streaked through the night time clouds. The last wave proved to be the most damaging as I lost electricity and a number of trees and tree tops.
But my weather was no Kentucky flooding. The damage to my little forest was no California hillside blazing inferno which devoured over fifty thousand acres of woodlands. The power company restored electricity by noon hour. And my logger arrives this evening to assess and plan the care of the impacted trees.
Losing trees saddens me. Every year or two the logger cuts particular trees which threaten the house, other trees or a ground dweller, such as myself!
Perhaps the storm contained winds of tempest, such as a wind sheer. Or perhaps the fronts conjured spirals of winds which pulled, twisted and indiscriminately snapped branches and limbs.
Early that morning I had been jarred awake by the sounds of wind and thunder rumbles. The house shook with the waves of storm sounds. I heard no crunching of tree limbs but I did hear the dead thud of tree parts falling to the ground.
I rushed to the window to see out only then realizing the storm had severed electricity. The gusts kicked up. Again, a thud. I could hear lighter sounds of impact upon the roof. A person would hesitate, would wait for more, but as sharply as the storm hit was as cutting as it left.
I grabbed a flashlight as I grabbed my robe. The rain had thankfully settled into showers. I awoke Wally to accompany me outside to survey the roof. I carefully stepped over small branches but nothing other than the smallest tufts of white pines had landed upon my shingles.
“Three waves,” I muttered to myself as I tucked myself into blankets. “Just as mom had warned. Three waves.”
Among the gnarliest white pines including one which had formed five top branches at least forty years ago, relatively young pines were uprooted by the storm. And among the maples which had been carefully trimmed, it was the strong mature maple tree tops which had been snapped. Side by side, these would have been the last ones to be selected by a shear of wind.
Where is the storybook now?
I had not seen the damaged trees until the following morning. I called my logger to reserve a spot on his schedule making sure that although I was not in immediate danger nor was I blocked, the tree tops hung dangerously, snagged on tree trunks and swing sets.
The thuds I had heard were verified to be the limbs smacking the ground. My storybook was in the relief that my home was not damaged and few trees were damaged. As I looked skyward, into the pines’ branches, I was amazed to see the outline of a bird nest. Somehow the nest, probably most likely to be vacant, had stood through the storms.
Keep positive, Steph. It’s not fifty thousand acres of woodlands and wildlife habitat. And it’s not raging flood damage.
And, now a week later, it most definitely isn’t an FBI raid. Oy vey!
Not everything is perfect. Um, no. When the storms hit, I was alone but not without resources. Not without friends. Not without help.
And circumstances could always be worse.