Of storms, trees, and happy hour

 

We just had a lovely storm come through my little corner of the world, the kind with no hail, no wind, little lightning, but dark skies, lots of thunder, and a gentle rain. I have the patio doors open and thoroughly enjoyed that fresh, wet smell. And the temperature, which had been in the low nineties, cooled down about twenty degrees. A neighbor emailed that she’s like Sophie—nervous about the thunder.

And that triggered a memory for me. When I was a kid, we had a cabin, really primitive, in the Indiana dunes. No electricity, no plumbing—we carried drinking water up three flights from the beach, used cistern water from a pump to wash dishes and then scalded them (probably not as sanitary as my mom thought at the time), and used an outhouse for private needs.

The cabin sat on a high dune at the very foot of Lake Michigan, and one of the joys of our summer times there was to watch a storm roll down the length of the lake, stirring up giant whitecaps in the water and turning the sky black. Bless my mom, for she taught us way back then to relish a storm and never be afraid. To this day I love a good storm, though I admit in Texas the possibility of tornados and hail make me nervous. And I have lived through a few storms that caused major damage, like one that took out my entire cookbook collection because the roof leaked.

After the storm passed tonight, the sky lightened, and for a while it had that eerie glow, a sort of greenish cast, that the atmosphere sometimes gets after a storm. I do understand that once again there was damage to the north of us, and I pray there were no injuries.

Most people worry about trees being damaged in our Texas spring storm. No such worries for us, because a huge branch—I mean huge!—fell off the old elm tree in front of the house this afternoon, well before the storm. No reason, except maybe age. It just fell. Since it is in the boulevard—the strip between sidewalk and street—it is the city’s tree, so I called the forestry department of Parks and Recreation. They made sure it isn’t blocking a sidewalk or a street (it isn’t) and said they will come look. We’ve lost big branches from that tree before, and each time I call the city I am afraid they’ll just take the whole tree down. It is probably a hundred years old—the age my house will be next year. I’m sure the house—and my daughter and her family who live in it now—would feel naked and exposed without that big tree which somehow seems to anchor us to our world. Then again, it does cross my mind that the whole tree could fall in the direction of the house. An arborist once explained to me that they are in the business of saving trees, not cutting them down, so I will wait to see what happens with this one.

A friend whose company I much enjoy came for happy hour tonight, and we timed it just perfectly. It was pleasant and lovely, and we caught up on each other—it had been too long. First we were waiting for vaccines, and then the weather was not patio weather, and then once we could be inside, she was sick, so tonight was a treat even though she had to leave for a meeting and I had a Zoom event, which it turned out I couldn’t log into because I had an invalid i.d. But just as we decided we had to go inside, I felt the first drops of rain hit my face. Good timing.

A good day. I wrote 1200 words and felt like I still have some momentum on my new project. And I heard from the editor to whom I sent my Helen Corbitt project—he assured me they would give it serious consideration and said nice things about my stature as a Texas writer. Everybody loves ego strokes, and I’m no exception.

Storm watch until eleven, so I’m going to lock up for the night, get in my jammies, and read the mystery I’m enjoying—Susan Van Kirk’s Death Takes No Bribes. Stay safe, everyone.