Stand up and let go! Dance like no one is watching….
My last days at the greenhouse for the summer season were stinking HOT! After the big blow of 2012, the straight line winds clocked at 89, and the searing 104 degree temps, I am so ready for a siesta. That’s one hundred and four degrees in NW Ohio. O. My. Stars. From Wikipedia***
A derecho ( /dəˈreɪtʃoʊ/; Spanish pronunciation: [deˈɾetʃo]; day-RAY-cho) is a widespread, long-lived, straight-line windstorm that is associated with a fast-moving band of severe thunderstorms. Generally, derechos are convection-induced and take on a bow echo form of squall line, forming in an area of divergence in the upper levels of the troposphere, within a region of low-level warm air advection and rich low-level moisture. They travel quickly in the direction of movement of their associated storms, similar to an outflow boundary (gust front), except that the wind is sustained and increases in strength behind the front, generally exceeding hurricane-force. A warm-weather phenomenon, derechos occur mostly in summer, especially during June and July in the Northern Hemisphere, within areas of moderately strong instability and moderately strong vertical wind shear. They may occur at any time of the year and occur as frequently at night as during the daylight hours.
This storm tore up my little Midwestern town. Many people were without power for 6 days. I was lucky and only had to deal with three days without my guilty pleasure-air conditioning. We were lucky and had no damage.
This is just one of hundreds of trees that were shredded, had tops blown off, or completely uprooted by the powerful winds of June 29.
After driving around to help friends and neighbors and seeing the devastation, I come away with the renewed awareness of the tenuous hold we have on “normal”. I have never been one to put too much faith in ‘normal’, believing instead that each of us has a divine destiny and although they differ, all paths lead in the same direction. But this is the year that life may be altered on December 21 and watching the climate changes, freaky weather, and the atrocities that humans heap on each other, I begin to wonder if we don’t have some kind of tilt coming, a ‘hump day’ so to speak, when enough of us are ready for change to make the change happen.
That’s a good thing, if the majority is ready for peace. But what if it tilts the other way? What if the majority of us is tired of our neighbors eccentricities, our governments’ rants, our dying planet? What if….?
I am grateful for ice cream, grandchildren’s messy kisses, friends that stick by me. What are you grateful for? What will you do on December 21, 2012? What majority do you belong to?
I’ve started a new blog chronicling the progress of my new WIP. Hope you guys will check it out! HedgeWriter will still be here, chronicling everything else.
The following is a ‘Picture This’ flash fiction challenge from Ken Broad’s Fictional Campfire that I wrote last August. Please enjoy “Broken”.
“…Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” Stephen King
I walked beneath the August sun, that glaring light that leeches the color from everything. The air is still and the only sound is the constant drone of the cicadas as they sing to their mates.
Plodding, one step at a time, one foot before another, step on a crack, break your mother’s back. The bridge echoing hollowly with each step and the slow moving river beneath a distant backdrop; clip clop, flip flops.
Sweat rolls in thin lines down my back beneath the thin cotton shift and I trade the wrinkled brown bag from one hand to the other, leaving traces of damp hand prints on the rolled edges. I can smell the creosote from the timbers beneath my feet heated by the sun and dried grey from the drought. Hot and weary, fear burned away, I stop and watch the water on its way to somewhere else.
He hadn’t seen me leave the trailer, snoring siesta from his evil mouth. He had forgotten the leg iron that kept me hidden from prying eyes, his own doll baby, stolen and now broken. I opened the bag and lifted the lifeless body of Maybell, her furry neck twisted oddly. Drawing my dead baby kitten to my breast I looked into the ocher waters below.
Just us, Maybell. Just us. I stepped toward freedom.