paul·a·ver

We return home from a trip to the local ice cream shop, the four of us piling out of the big white cross-over vehicle that Jenn drives, and that I affectionately call the hearse.

The kids bound over the lawn and hop over the frost-burned monkey grass that lines our walkway.

I look at the sky. The clouds are moving fast.

“They said we’d have wind coming in tonight,” I nod at Jenn. “I guess they weren’t kidding.”

“Yeah,” she says, “let’s get inside.”

I follow the kids to the door and let them in.

Flipping on the lights, I holler, “Who’s first bath?”

“I’ll take a warm bath,” Evan tells me. “Maybe it’ll make me feel better.” He’s been home with a stomach bug all day, and he does seem to be moving a little slowly.

“Graham,” I say, pointing to our office, “sentences.”

“OK,” he sighs, and makes his way into the office turning on the computer monitor.

Moments later, Graham and I are working on his homework, and Jenn is helping Evan in the bath. The lights go out. The carbon monoxide detector emits a piercing beep, and the UPS sounds its warning.

“Better save,” I tell Graham.

The dog whines, and I pat her head. “It’s OK,” I tell her.

“I’ll get you candles,” I shout to Evan and open the closet fumbling for a flashlight.

Then, the roar, like I am standing directly beneath Tahquamenon Falls.

The house shakes.

“Get downstairs, now!” I shout pushing Graham toward the basement steps. He trips on his way, wondering why I’m suddenly so loud and abrupt.

Jenn steps from the bath and her color goes from ruddy to putty in an instant. She spins and grabs Evan from the tub. He emerges wearing only a jacket of foamy soap suds. “Go.” Jenn yells, “Now!”

Evan is bewildered and shivering.

“You gotta hustle, Buddy,” I tell him and smile, I hope, reassuringly.

I grab Jenn’s hand and tell her, “Take him, I’ll get a towel.”

The wind rattles across the threshold of our front door. Our windows purr. I hear the painful rip of a tree trunk twisted and torn by the hand of nature.

I grab a pair of towels, pick up the candles I’ve pulled from the closet, then snag matches on my way through the kitchen.

I jump the steps to the basement.

The storm leaves as quickly as it arrived. I’ve left the weather radio upstairs, and we’ve really no information about what’s going on, no idea what things might look like outside. “It’s funny how fast you can feel disconnected from the rest of the world isn’t it?” I ask Jenn in the candle light.

She has her phone. I often wonder whether it’s become a part of her body, but I am glad she has it now. She calls a few friends to see if they have power, if they know what’s going on. Leslie has power, but they’re in the basement. They live on Hycliffe, which we’ll later find is one of the hardest hit streets, though they’ll escape with little damage. No real news on the television–just strong winds.

After 30 minutes, I head upstairs in the shocking quiet. I feel in the dark for the LED headlamp the boys gave me, put it on, and open the door.

It’s pitch. No one will recognize the extent of the damage until morning.

I walk out into the street and trip over a branch. I haul it to the side of the road, so no one gets hurt.

I turn to see my neighbor Tony standing quietly not fifteen feet away. “Oh, I didn’t see you at all,” I tell him.

“Crazy,” he says.

“Any news?” I ask.

“It’s dark,” he laughs, which is strange. He doesn’t laugh often.

“Yeah,” I click my tongue.

“I bet it’ll be a few days until power’s back,” he bites his lip. He plays guitar, and I doubt he wants to be without power to his stacks for long.

There is devastation all around us. A gazebo and garage across the street are completely shattered. A massive oak lies fallen, crossing three lots and more in the yards behind. A house around the corner is an utter loss. Hot power lines dangle threateningly over streets and sidewalks.

We see none of it. It’s all darkness.

The National Weather service has since confirmed an F1 tornado hit our neighborhood with 90MPH winds.

By some peculiar accident of fate and nature, our house is untouched. We have no more than a few limbs down in our backyard. Homes all around us lie beneath trees, temporarily uninhabitable and without power. Around the corner, an old oak vines its way through a front bedroom, under the bed, around dining chairs, through cupboards, and out the back door.

Meanwhile, we have electricity and watched the television news last night with a small twinge of guilt for our good fortune.

As tornadoes go, this one wasn’t terribly strong. Still, the destructive force of nature is apparent right outside our front door, and our back door too for that matter.

And here I am, puzzling at the randomness by which we escaped harm.