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You've probably heard all about our flooding on the news. It has rained for three weeks straight. During the day, it is beautiful, hot, sunny, swimming weather, but at night Mr. Hyde comes out to rain on our parade. Only, he doesn't just rain, he violently throws hail and fierce winds and torrential downpours at us. One morning, the radio informed me that we had received two inches of rain in ten minutes' time. Two nights ago, our (heavy) grill and deck chair were pushed into our pool.
Last night, I heard our house blowing apart bit by bit, and I got up to investigate. After turning the outside light on, I watched beautiful hailstones slam into our patio doors. I checked on Liberty, sure that the concert-level decibels would wake her up. She slept blissfully unaware, her arms thrown up over her head, and her tousled blond curls and little red cheeks healthfully shining in the semi-darkness. I checked Kimmie's room, only to find an empty bed. I quietly called her name as I searched the house. I saved the basement for last, fully expecting to find her anxiously watching the TV screen for tornado warnings, but when I reached the basement, she was not in sight.
"Kimmie?" I called quietly, for the first time beginning to wonder what might have happened to her. No answer. "Kimmie?" I repeated, louder this time, and I turned to go back up the stairs. A scraping noise to my right whirled my body quickly around. Kimmie's form loomed out of the darkness setting my heart pounding.
She smiled sheepishly at me while I recovered.
She had been hiding from the storm behind some storage boxes in the basement. I coaxed her into returning to her bedroom, and she reluctantly climbed the stairs with me. Before going back to bed, she and I sat at the patio doors and watched the ice fall from the sky. The light on the porch shone through each hailstone as it passed, casting quick shimmers of color into our eyes. The beauty-lover in Kimmie awoke, and she was able to go back to bed feeling better about the storm.
Until thirty minutes later when she pounded on my door, waking me up to ask about the "strange orange figure in the sky."
Last night, I heard our house blowing apart bit by bit, and I got up to investigate. After turning the outside light on, I watched beautiful hailstones slam into our patio doors. I checked on Liberty, sure that the concert-level decibels would wake her up. She slept blissfully unaware, her arms thrown up over her head, and her tousled blond curls and little red cheeks healthfully shining in the semi-darkness. I checked Kimmie's room, only to find an empty bed. I quietly called her name as I searched the house. I saved the basement for last, fully expecting to find her anxiously watching the TV screen for tornado warnings, but when I reached the basement, she was not in sight.
"Kimmie?" I called quietly, for the first time beginning to wonder what might have happened to her. No answer. "Kimmie?" I repeated, louder this time, and I turned to go back up the stairs. A scraping noise to my right whirled my body quickly around. Kimmie's form loomed out of the darkness setting my heart pounding.
She smiled sheepishly at me while I recovered.
She had been hiding from the storm behind some storage boxes in the basement. I coaxed her into returning to her bedroom, and she reluctantly climbed the stairs with me. Before going back to bed, she and I sat at the patio doors and watched the ice fall from the sky. The light on the porch shone through each hailstone as it passed, casting quick shimmers of color into our eyes. The beauty-lover in Kimmie awoke, and she was able to go back to bed feeling better about the storm.
Until thirty minutes later when she pounded on my door, waking me up to ask about the "strange orange figure in the sky."
How scary! I saw what's all the flooding on the news and it's just terrible. Be safe!
I feel for you! It got up to 50 here today. It's been cold and rainy and miserable. The mountain passes in Western Washington saw at least 6 inches of snow yesterday. My tomatoes aren't happy and my son has to wear his coat to play baseball. I believe the TV news said it is the coldest June on record since 1863.
Crazy!