My neighbor, Susan, mopping.
In the recent devastating
storms we’ve had in the Metroplex, the Alter/Burton compound has been lucky. We
have survived with very little damage. When we had hail a night or two ago, I
listened with worry as it pinged against the frail old glass in the cottage windows, and I worried
about the cars, particularly my soft-top VW. But all was well. Just blocks from
us, at TCU and University Christian, windshields were shattered and in one
instance a car top broken.
But this morning my computer
popped up a memory from ten years ago, and I was taken back to a terrific spring
storm that did real damage. Jacob was probably six and scared of storms, so he
had slept in my bed. I am not sure if this was the time we sat in the
evening and watched the rain and hail fall furiously, only later to hear that
it had taken the entire roof off a building down the street. My protestations
that I loved a good storm only brought forth one word from Jacob: “Why?” I couldn’t
explain that as a kid in a cabin on a high ridge in the Indiana Dunes I had
watched storms roll down the length of that lake and stir the water into dark,
big whitecaps. Thanks to my mom’s attitude, I reveled in watching the power and
was never afraid. In Texas, I have learned that a little fear might be a good
thing.
But this night it must have
rained hard during the night, and when I woke in the morning, I could smell
wetness. It came from the back of the house, where the add-on family room has a
flat roof. We were in the midst of getting the house and cottage re-roofed, and
the roofers had put a tarp over the family room. I didn’t want to go back there
alone, so holding Jacob’s hand, I went through the kitchen and into the family
room. The wood floor was two inches deep in water, and if you stood in the
middle of the room, you were rained on.
I called everyone I could
think of—Jordan, our neighbors, our contractor, our roofer, and it wasn’t long
before there was an army cleaning, sorting, mopping. I can still hear my neighbor
(the good looking one) saying as he walked into the room, “Sweet Jesus!” and I
can see Lewis, my beloved contractor, and the roofing company owner on their
hands and knees sponging up water.
My cookbook collection was on
top of a long bookshelf, specially built for the room. I lost all of them,
including beautiful four-color coffee table books as well as books I had treasured since childhood. We were planning a special
sale that afternoon of my children’s books for the parents of children at Lily
B., across the street. All the children’s books were spread out on the couch—and
mostly ruined. It was Jordan’s birthday, but instead of the lovely lunch we
planned, she spent the day sorting wet books on the front porch, as everyone
else ferried them out to her.
The long Lovesac wrap-around
couch was soaked, the wood floor buckled. Fortunately, insurance covered most of
it, and eventually order was restored—the floor smooth, the couch as good as
new after it was sent out for a long drying process. But the books were a total
loss. To me, an incredible loss.
I guess I never again felt the
same about storms. But there was one funny night a year or two later when we
were under severe storm warning. Jacob decided we had to go to the closet, and
he kept urging me to the long closet on one side of my bedroom. When I finally
went there, I saw he had a pillow and blanket for himself, an electronic game of
some sort that he could play on batteries. And he had a dining chair, a
flashlight, and a glass of wine for me. So we sat for a long time. When I’d ask
if we could go out (I heard no thunder), he’d say, “Not yet, Juju, not yet.” It’s
one of my favorite memories of his childhood.
I know with the last couple of
storms this spring, friends and neighbors have suffered damage. I am grateful
we’ve been spared—even the new Chinese pistache tree came through unscathed—but
I worry for friends who lost so much, especially a Facebook friend with a
nursery who lost a greenhouse. Storms are something we learn to live with in
North Texas, and I guess we always think it wouldn’t happen to us. But it can.
While I still enjoy the power and glory, I am respectful—and ever watchful.
Next time we have a storm I hope
each and every one of you is safe.
