Summer Storm

The August storm is sudden and unexpected. Rain pours across my windshield; it feels as though I’m in a car wash. My wipers – at the highest speed – work futilely to clear the view. I flick on my turn signal, make an abrupt right off Bardstown Road onto a side street, and pull in behind the Twig and Leaf. I park the car. 

 

Rain blows horizontally across a nearby parking lot. The neighborhood’s enormous old oak and maple trees rattle and bend; limbs as thick as a quarterback’s thigh thud to the ground. Smaller branches snap off and fly across the road. Pedestrians in soaking shorts and T-shirts seek shelter in doorways. 

 

Several hours earlier, my small weather radio had sounded an alert for possible thunderstorms in the area. Shortly before the storm hit, I had noticed odd, nearly rectangular clouds to the west. They were layered in the sky like charcoal-colored shingles. Now, as lightning cracks and thunder roars above the sound of the deluge, I realize this is no ordinary thunderstorm.

 

I stay in the lee of the building for fifteen minutes or so, listening to the car radio. At the height of the storm, the National Weather Service issues a belated warning. 

 

Finally, the worst of the storm passes and the rain lets up a little. I put the car in gear, make a U-turn in the parking lot, and ease back onto Bardstown Road. I drive slowly, dodging broken branches and stray garbage cans that roll across the street. The gutters overflow; the right lane is filled with several inches of water and is impassable. I watch for downed power lines as I make my way back home.

 

I pass a gas station a few blocks from our house. A giant billboard has folded over at a right angle, smashing the roof over the gas pumps. 

 

A tree lies incongruously through the middle of the roof of a house. It looks like someone’s finger lying embedded in the chocolate frosting of a cake. Broken shingles and rafters cradle the giant tree trunk; gutters dangle in the air.

 

The rain has almost stopped. Neighbors are emerging from their houses to survey the damage. One car’s rear windshield is shattered; the tree branch lies in the backseat. A real estate sign in someone’s yard is bent nearly in half.

 

Several times, my way is blocked by downed trees. I turn around and wind through less familiar streets until I arrive at our driveway. I pull in and park the car. There are limbs in the yard and enormous puddles fill the driveway, but the house looks intact. 

 

I dodge the last of the raindrops and scurry in. My daughter, son-in-law and four grandkids are safe. All is right with the world.