Aftermath

by Janis Susan May/Janis Patterson

Adventure and danger are fun in fiction. In real life – not. Two weeks ago on the day after Christmas ten to twelve (depending on which weatherman you listen to) tornadoes hit Dallas and its suburbs.

That afternoon had been warm and humid. The Husband and I had indulged in a quick dip in the hot tub, knowing it would probably be the last for a while as cold weather was predicted. We had been in only about a quarter of an hour when it started to rain. Of course we immediately dashed into the house – like we were afraid we’d get wet, huh? – because we knew a big storm was predicted.

We just didn’t know how much of a storm it would be. It rained sporadically but not very hard for a couple of hours, Then, just around dark, chaos began. The Husband turned on the TV because one of our favorite shows was coming on – except it wasn’t. Every local channel was doing a continual broadcast of the weather. Semi-hysterical weathermen were pointing at multi-colored maps and advising us to find safe rooms in our houses. (We don’t have one, except a closet or two – our house is very open and has many many windows.) I must admit that we weren’t alarmed; the local weathermen have a tendency to get hysterical about ‘approaching bad weather’ that turns out to be nothing but a mild thunderstorm. They do have to keep their ratings up.

This time, however, they were spot on. A few minutes later the rain came, and that was really rain, as if someone had pointed a squadron of fire hoses straight down on our house. After less than half a minute the gutters couldn’t handle the volume and simply overflowed, wrapping the house in a dense curtain of water. The tornado siren less than a quarter of a mile away began to wail. It didn’t stop for over half an hour. On the TV the weatherman was pointing to a bright red/pink area of tornadic activity and we were not cheered to see that it was right over our neighborhood. The wind was fierce, blowing the rain almost sideways. I was afraid that it would be as bad as it had been a couple of years ago, when The Husband had been deployed overseas, when a straight line wind blew so hard it stripped the trees, blew the heavy cover right off the hot tub and shaved a bunch of shingles off the roof, but for us at least it wasn’t. This time. We were fortunate enough to suffer no damage other than the loss of a lot of leaves and a few small branches, flooded gutters and a completely drenched property. Thank You, God. There has been an unprecedented aftereffect, though. 2015 was a very wet year for our region. There had been heavy rain both before and several times after the tornadoes stormed through and the ground was saturated. I didn’t realize how wet it was until we opened the scuttlehole to the crawlspace beneath the house – and for the first time in my memory (and I grew up in this house) there was water standing there. Almost an inch of standing water, despite the fact we live on the top of a substantial hill! Amazing – and in its own way frightening.

Some people weren’t so lucky. Less than ten miles away, in the southeastern suburb cities (yes, Dallas is big) tornadoes started striking. A tornado at night is so much more frightening, because it is almost impossible to see. There are some photos of the funnels touching down, at least two taken by the light of things exploding behind it. There were estimates of over 140 homes so completely destroyed they were almost vaporized. One of The Husband’s friends at work had his home so severely damaged they may never be able to go back. I don’t know the final death toll, but it has to be at least a dozen. My heart bleeds for those families whose homes were destroyed and even more for those who lost loved ones. It’s bad enough that anyone should have to suffer such losses, but for it to happen the day after the happiest and most blessed day of the year is adding insult to injury. May God comfort and be with them.

But in every disaster there are spots of unbelievable kindness. Within hours of the disaster volunteer search and rescue teams were out looking for trapped survivors – both human and animal. A vet was offering free boarding for the pets of people whose homes were damaged or destroyed until they could get things together. A storage company offered the storm’s victims a free month of storage for what they could salvage. Ordinary citizens not only pitched in to help search but brought armloads of donations, including gift cards. Texas has always been a can-do, help your neighbor kind of state and this proves it yet again.

Tornadoes are a part of life in this part of the world. I remember a couple of years ago – and The Husband was deployed overseas this time too – I was sitting in my office (also known as the guest bedroom) trying to work. It was a grey, overcast spring day (my favorite kind) and gradually I became aware that the sirens were not only going off, but had been doing so for quite a while. Frankly I was annoyed at the noise, because it made it hard to concentrate. Finally I realized what those sirens meant and, never having been very bright, ran outside to see if I could spot anything. There was nothing visible other than low, thick grey clouds.

That day they say there were nineteen tornadoes dancing through the metroplex area, damaging or destroying all they touched. The best analogy I can offer is that of a heedless two year old stamping merrily around a garden – one foot here, another there, without regard to the helpless flowers underfoot. And don’t feel too safe no matter where you live – meteorologists say tornadoes can occur anywhere in the world, even if over eighty percent happen in the southern central part of the United States.

Yes, tornadoes are part of life in this part of the world, but as a seventh generation Texan I wouldn’t live anywhere else. 

A Matter of Perspective

by Janis Susan May/Janis Patterson

This past Thanksgiving holiday weekend The Husband and I decided to go to a gigantic flea market – the oldest in Texas – about an hour from our home. Neither of us had been there for a decade or more. This is neither a small nor a quick expedition; the market site covers many acres and has everything from permanent buildings with interior stalls to miles of winding sort-of-paved paths (just exactly the width of a large pickup) with individual open air sites marked off with paint. 

We were there about seven hours and, as we are dedicated lookers who walk rather slowly, saw only about half of it. The weather was cool and perfect, and a slight breeze kept us comfortable. A thin layer of clouds filtered the sun’s glare. Every few yards there was a food hutch of some variety or other and you could find all kinds of flea-market delicacies. I could write an entire post on the corny dogs alone, and the funnel cakes are to die for!

The day was one of the most distressing I have ever had.

Why, you ask?

One of the main draws of this particular flea market is the antiques. You can find everything from a rusted kitchen ricer to an early 19^th century crystal chandelier. My shock came from what is now acceptable to call an antique!

Apparently the pundits of the antique trade have now decided that things from the 50s (that’s the 1950s) can legitimately be called antiques. They even have their own official classification – MidCentury Modern. It’s distressing to see things that I grew up with – some of which I still own and use – marked as ‘antique.’ 

A hammered aluminum (which I love) casserole in a much more battered state than mine was marked almost $40. A blue flowered Corning Ware water kettle – identical to one I was given when I went off to school – ran between $15-20.  (Mine was obtained for two and a half books of Green Stamps, a viable currency in those days.) A rather undistinguished pressed glass bowl my parents received when I was a child for some anniversary or other was well over $50.

And these were all marked as ‘antiques’ – not collectables, not used-but-still-useful objects, but antiques. Arrgh!

Half of me was tempted to go home and clean out the house, bring the stuff back, get a booth and start selling.

The other half of me wanted to cry.

After all, if these things are regarded as legitimate ‘antiques,’ what does that say about me?

Pardon me – I think I’ll go drown my sorrows in a nice, icy Diet Dr. Pepper (the National Drink of Texas!). In an antique, MidCentury Modern aluminum glass, of course.

Would You Ever Skydive?

by Gina Ardito

I opted to take the plunge (literally!) the year I turned fifty. It was a topsy-turvy year for me. Not just because I'd reached that venerable decade (which honestly, didn't faze me), but because the first half of the year was filled with heartache, disappointment, and a lot of near-misses. Six months in, in June, I was traveling to Houston for a speaking engagement. I decided by jumping out of a plane, I would show the Fates I'd had enough of their toying with me and mine. I was taking back my life in the most dramatic way I could conceive. My daughter, who'd undergone spinal surgery earlier that year and had just turned twenty-one, was thrilled to join me. 

After getting the okay from my girl's surgeon, we made our plans. We did our research, chose a site, made an appointment online, and got more and more excited as the date drew nearer. Finally, we flew from New York to Texas, rented a car, and drove to the small airport where we would get on another plane--this time, to leap out of it. 

We arrived at the skydiving locale on a sunny afternoon and spent two hours learning what to expect and what we'd be expected to do. Then, we met our instructors (who would tandem dive with us) and put on our gear. We wore jumpsuits with headsets and mics so our instructors could converse with us and give us last-minute directions. At first glance, my instructor was a little intimidating. Picture Woody Harrelson as he looked in such movies as "Seven Psychopaths," "Zombieland," or "Natural Born Killers." Now, scrape his throat raw to darken his voice and toss in a Texas twang. That was my guy. A former Boeing employee, he had more than 10,000 jumps under his belt, and after spending a lot of time together, I discovered he was also a sweetheart beneath that scary exterior. Once our instructors felt we were ready, they assisted us on to the plane that would take us 14,000 feet up for our moment of temporary insanity.

Sounds crazy? Maybe. But it was an event I'll never forget. Just standing at the open doorway, waiting to push off into oblivion, is terrifying and yet, oddly, thrilling at the same time. All too soon, the sound of "Go!" hit my ears. My toes left the edge, and we were out. The wind slapped my cheeks with so much force, I heard my skin flapping. The view as the earth hurtled into focus evoked a sense of wonder. The altimeter on my wrist, which I'd been directed to keep an eye on, marked our descent. And just when I thought I'd panic from the realization of what I'd done, we hit the right altitude. I pulled the cord, the parachute opened, and with a quick jerk, our speed slowed to a gentle waft. By pulling on the handles on either side of my 'chute, I was able to control which direction the wind took us. For the next several minutes, we drifted through the clear blue sky to the green grass far below. It's beautifully peaceful as you coast to land again, your heartbeat slowing to a more normal rhythm, the world growing bigger and bigger beneath you. 

Once on the ground, I understood my instructor's passion for the sport. Skydiving is an exhilarating experience, and I highly recommend, if you don't have a phobia about heights (or plummeting), you try it...at least once. You gotta have a story to tell, right? 

And by the way, the Fates stopped messing with me after that.