A colleague purchased a home in her native Iowa--only days before the devastation from mighty winds of a derecho hit the sleepy town.
Never heard of a derecho? Neither had I.
What a strange name--yet fitting for nature's tantrum. To qualify for the name derecho, the thunderstorm winds must be complex, horrific, howling, and cover a range of at least 400 miles long and 60 miles wide. It makes the Pamplona Run of the Bulls look downright mild.
Her family had lovely remodeling plans. Paint, new carpet, visions of family gatherings. In the storm, they lost only one pine tree, and fortunately, it missed the house when it fell. She'd left before the storm, to return to work, but her husband stayed back to see the remodeling project take place.
Then the storm hit.
All hands went into recovery. Chain saw sounds were more common than cicadas in summer.
Yet, her husband left for more than practical reasons. He left because he was discouraged with the aftermath. Some people helped, found joy in serving their neighbors. They got to work. But when the power was out, and the power company predicted they couldn't restore power for a few more weeks, some people became the derecho. Generators were stolen, fear of shortages left people short on compassion and kindness. My colleague compared the actions to the first days of the pandemic when people were punching each other over toilet paper.
A second derecho.
Tony was biking this week when he felt a puncture of pain on his back. His initial thought was that he was paint balled and made a mental note to check his shirt for paint splatters.
When he later checked his shirt, then his back, there wasn't paint, but blood and a round circle caused by trauma and a center point that bled.
Someone had used Tony for a target.
We're obviously and overwhelmingly thankful it wasn't a real gun, a real bullet.
I feel vulnerable; he must too.
Unsettling as a derecho.
Never heard of a derecho? Neither had I.
What a strange name--yet fitting for nature's tantrum. To qualify for the name derecho, the thunderstorm winds must be complex, horrific, howling, and cover a range of at least 400 miles long and 60 miles wide. It makes the Pamplona Run of the Bulls look downright mild.
Her family had lovely remodeling plans. Paint, new carpet, visions of family gatherings. In the storm, they lost only one pine tree, and fortunately, it missed the house when it fell. She'd left before the storm, to return to work, but her husband stayed back to see the remodeling project take place.
Then the storm hit.
All hands went into recovery. Chain saw sounds were more common than cicadas in summer.
Yet, her husband left for more than practical reasons. He left because he was discouraged with the aftermath. Some people helped, found joy in serving their neighbors. They got to work. But when the power was out, and the power company predicted they couldn't restore power for a few more weeks, some people became the derecho. Generators were stolen, fear of shortages left people short on compassion and kindness. My colleague compared the actions to the first days of the pandemic when people were punching each other over toilet paper.
A second derecho.
Tony was biking this week when he felt a puncture of pain on his back. His initial thought was that he was paint balled and made a mental note to check his shirt for paint splatters.
When he later checked his shirt, then his back, there wasn't paint, but blood and a round circle caused by trauma and a center point that bled.
Someone had used Tony for a target.
We're obviously and overwhelmingly thankful it wasn't a real gun, a real bullet.
I feel vulnerable; he must too.
Unsettling as a derecho.
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