maybe once, maybe twice
Jun. 14th, 2004 12:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
femme41It's late and my eyes are stenciled with the memory of impatient text from a book I'm reviewing. One pot of coffee, fingers burned, ratty old red dress and no shoes. Still no opening paragraph.
A storm is waking up outside. I remember as a child when storms would get severe, our power would sometimes be out for two days. We'd pull out the sheepskin rugs and old rubber air mattresses and my whole family would sleep around the wood stove. All five cats and the dog. My dad would go check on the sheep in the barn and my mother would wait by the bay window, pacing, worrying that the lightening would strike him. Instead of two far-away houses illuminating the horizon, the only light would be from the lightening. I'd count between the thunder and strikes, holding my breath.
The border collie, seemingly afraid of nothing, wolves, tractors, combines, would be reduced to a quivering bunny at the onset of a storm, paws covering his ears and eyes, whimpering and hiding behind the arm chair. I joined him. My brother would fearlessly press his kid face against the window and make telescopes out of rolled up books of sheet music, light all the xmas candles and ask my father science related questions.
While my father would tell me not to be such a worry-wart, i felt only somewhat vindicated in my fears when eventually a tornado picked up our barn, slabs of wood and hay strewn across a 15 mile radius, a few years later.
A storm is waking up outside. I remember as a child when storms would get severe, our power would sometimes be out for two days. We'd pull out the sheepskin rugs and old rubber air mattresses and my whole family would sleep around the wood stove. All five cats and the dog. My dad would go check on the sheep in the barn and my mother would wait by the bay window, pacing, worrying that the lightening would strike him. Instead of two far-away houses illuminating the horizon, the only light would be from the lightening. I'd count between the thunder and strikes, holding my breath.
The border collie, seemingly afraid of nothing, wolves, tractors, combines, would be reduced to a quivering bunny at the onset of a storm, paws covering his ears and eyes, whimpering and hiding behind the arm chair. I joined him. My brother would fearlessly press his kid face against the window and make telescopes out of rolled up books of sheet music, light all the xmas candles and ask my father science related questions.
While my father would tell me not to be such a worry-wart, i felt only somewhat vindicated in my fears when eventually a tornado picked up our barn, slabs of wood and hay strewn across a 15 mile radius, a few years later.
