Slightly Off the Mark

I was busy killing Nazis when everything became perfectly still. Not a bird chirp, not a breath of wind. The light around me turned a strange green. Kind of like the olive-colored kitchen appliances that used to be so popular, and please don't build those again.

Everything seemed to almost glow from within. It was enough to make me forget Sgt. Rock and just stand there, gazing upward.

And that was it. The light turned normal again, and I headed into the barn to back up The Haunted Tank. We lived out in the country where we couldn't hear sirens, the TV was turned off, and portable alert devices were things I saw on Star Trek.

It was part of the 1974 Super Outbreak, one of the worst tornado outbreaks in history. 148 tornadoes rampaged across 13 states, killing 330 people. The one that came so close to me was an EF3, and it killed three people, injuring 38 more.

Somehow, I didn't find out until years later that a tornado has passed two miles from where I stood. 

The March 30 storm damaged the roofs of two Noble County Highway buildings, less than a mile from our home.

Maybe not knowing is why I became fascinated with the sky, but never developed a fear of storms. I'm one of those morons who would be out in the back yard, scanning the sky, while sane folks huddled in the basement.

Being a volunteer firefighter and storm spotter gave me an excuse, but didn't make me any smarter.

Either way, having the tornado sirens go off while you're standing in the shower is definitely attention grabbing.

I dressed in the basement, and the worst of it seemed to be over when I dashed through the rain to work. But it wasn't, for me: I work in the Noble County 911 center. There are normally two or three of us there. I arrived half an hour early and found one of my shift partners already there. Including a trainee, there were five of us, then six, and we were overwhelmed.

Our power went out twice; our radio system stopped working once; our business phone lines stayed down all night, leaving us with one backup cell phone. (Honestly, we used our own a lot.) Meanwhile, every fire department and every on-duty officer in the county raced from place to place, checking on damage and downed utility lines, clearing trees, and keeping their eyes on the skies. Between 4:40 and 8 p.m. we entered 76 calls, almost all for storm damage.

No injuries. The very definition of it could be worse.

I actually took this a few days earlier, but you get the idea.

In bordering LaGrange County the storm flipped an Amish buggy, killing one man. Meanwhile, not far to the north, an ice storm flattened northern lower Michigan. On the other end of the storm system ... a blizzard.

As I write this, we've just had still another tornado warning, thankfully short lived, and a tornado outbreak to the south and west of us ... and east, now that I've had time to check the weather channels.

I told someone over winter that I had a feeling this would be a bad weather year. Wish I remembered who, so I could say I told you so. But I'd rather be wrong.

This is another photo I took a few days earlier, right after a thunderstorm. I like this better.

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Lately it's been much better to stay inside and read.

The other day I was at Wal-Mart (wearing two layers of pajamas--brrrr), when I ran into a polar bear shopping for winter coats. "Shouldn't you be up north?" I asked.

"Nah, I'm tired of the cold. I'm heading to the Gulf Coast. Hopefully this Arctic air won't keep following me."

Then he took off south in his Tundra. I don't know what happened to him, but I have a feeling he's not happy.

Shall we talk about the weather? Everything west of the Rocky Mountains is burning, everything east is freezing. It's like a Rankin/Bass stop motion special about Hell.

The Heat Miser and Cold Miser battle over Las Vegas.

I told everyone: "Don't welcome 2025! Wait until you get to know it better!" Well, here it is, and now we know it just fine.

It can be argued that this is just a continuation of 2024, anyway. The Hawaii fires were last August. Hurricane Helene decided it wanted a mountain vacation back in September, so it headed for the Appalachian Mountains--and flattened them.

Sure, a lot of people up there are in tents and are running short of propane, but it's the South--at least it won't be too cold. Will it?

Getting really tired of the term "record breaking".

Here in northern Indiana we had, as the British might say, "a bit of a cool spell". The high temperature earlier in the week was 30 degrees lower than normal. At one point, the wind chill factor was minus 30 degrees. Fahrenheit. It made me a little nostalgic for the late 70s and 80s, when the phrase was "another weekend, another snowstorm".

Back then Time Magazine produced an article titled "Another Ice Age?" (From 1974. I was convinced I saw that title on the cover in 1977, but it didn't happen.) Global cooling was taken seriously by a lot of people, although even then others warned about global warming. Some of my favorite science fiction stories back then were about efforts to survive the oncoming glaciers.

As for me, I was deliriously happy when I found out the globe was warming instead of cooling. Then I read a science journal article predicting a few areas of the planet might actually get cooler, even as the rest warmed up.

And guess what winter-hating blogger lives in one of those areas?

But there's a difference between climate and weather, and right now the Cold Miser has told the Heat Miser to "hold my pina colada, and watch this". As awful as our Indiana weather has been, this is a mild spot in the country.

A blizzard warning on the Gulf Coast of Texas and Louisiana. A blizzard warning. Snow working its way up the southern states. A snowstorm in New Orleans.

New Orleans! The place looks like North Dakota.

Imagine if they had their Mardi Gras now. All those poor guys with thousands of beads, and they can't get the inebriated ladies to show anything. Have you ever had a frostbit nipple? Okay, neither have I, but I have had frostbitten fingers, toes, ears, and cheeks (on my face, mind you), and I can imagine.

(I wonder what kind of drink a frostbit nipple would be?)

"I don't feel jazzed at all."

And the women would unzip their coats, unbutton their quilted shirts, and show their flannel. Why? Because if they can get enough beads, it's another layer of insulation.

So the disasters keep coming, so fast one is still going on when the next one strikes. If you want to keep track, hope the Weather Channel shows a split screen. Or, you could invest in a few more TVs and have each playing a different channel. That may seem extreme, but I have friends in all the disaster areas, not to mention I've always been a weather nerd, anyway.

Still, I wouldn't mind a break from the weather. I'll bet I'm not the only one.

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Remember: Books make a good wind break.

 So ... tornadoes.

I don't need to say "possible" tornadoes, because several people got videos and photos of the funnels and their damage. I headed up to dispatch, and so the photos I'm showing were taken from the dispatch window a short time after the fact.

It got pretty funky for awhile, but by the time I got to work the twisters were just crossing into LaGrange County, heading northeast. (If you're not from Indiana, LaGrange County is directly north of us in Noble County, and borders the Michigan state line.) We got a fair amount of rain, which is good for our drought, but I never noticed any thunder from here. I believe the closest the confirmed funnels got to us was five or six miles, and heading away.

And this is looking pretty much straight east. The lighted rectangle is ... well, a rectangular light, behind me.

This is looking toward the east also, as the storms moved away from us. Those clouds are close to, or over, Ohio, which I believe also had a tornado warning. We were paying more attention at the time to the tornado cutting a swath through LaGrange County. There wasn't much warning, because the storm basically formed and dropped its funnels right over us. The damage was largely in the Ligonier area, northwest of Albion. It could have been worse: Many funnels that didn't reach the ground were also spotted.

 It's a little hard to see, but that's a large flock of birds that took off shortly after the storm passed. Maybe headed south, or maybe "anywhere but here".

And a final photo of the courthouse as the clouds clear, with the birds above. I've noticed that building has "moods" based on the lighting conditions, and this time around it was kind of spooky.

From what I'm hearing at this point it sounds like two tornadoes actually touched down, one in Noble County and one that caused damage all the way through LaGrange County. In Noble County some buildings were damaged, including a residence that lost its roof. The Ligonier area lost power, and we had to call out firefighters and the Noble County Highway Department to clear trees from roadways. Stop lights were out, power lines down--the usual.

For awhile we had six dispatchers in here, where normally we'd have two or three. All the emergency services were pretty busy, as you might imagine, and we stayed busy for awhile. Still, we had no reported injuries here in Noble, so there's that--but two people were injured in LaGrange County when the Amish buggy they were in was hit. (No, I haven't heard anything about the horse's condition.)

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Remember: If you have enough books, they can cushion you from strong winds.

 She pops out for a day, shows a little leg, smiles demurely, and disappears again, leaving her anxious suitors to suffer through more cold and wet. It’s hardly any wonder that the symbol of weather should run hot and cold, but sheesh – enough is enough.

The stupid groundhog predicted an early spring, but he didn't say it would come all at once. What is a groundhog, anyway? It’s a big rat. Set a trap, somebody.

Even more than usual, our weather pattern looks like a heartbeat on an EKG. It reminds me the old days, when I walked to school barefoot, in a raging blizzard every morning and a blistering heat wave in the afternoon. (Uphill both ways, blah blah blah.)

I really should get around to admitting I only lived two blocks from school.

As a result of the bouncing weather, some people say they'd rather it just stay cold all the time. Their brains are still frozen. Saying cold all the time instead of warm some of the time is like saying that, since you can’t eat 24 hours a day, you’d rather just starve. To carry the heavy comparison further, I’d rather weigh 300 pounds but be alive than be the first member of my family to voluntarily starve to death.

Most of my best winter photos are taken from inside. I care less about glare than I do about frostbite.

Summer now goes by much more quickly than it used to, and winter – strange as our recent winters have been – lasts much longer. When I was a kid, the average summer lasted eighteen months. Seriously. I would go out to play after breakfast, and wouldn’t come in again for three days, just in time for lunch. The summer when I turned nine lasted for over six years. It’s a science-fictiony mystery, but there you go. We went down to Kentucky for a two week vacation that lasted so long we had to cut down trees to get the car back on the road.

And it never got hot. Kids could wake up in the hospital with two IV’s in their arms to rehydrate them, and have no idea they were ever overheated. Then they’d go home and run back outside again. Sure, most of us didn’t notice the cold, either, but we sure noticed when we started getting feeling back into our limbs. It was like getting a power pinch from our least favorite aunt – all over.

Isn't this fun? SO much fun. Later I'm having hot chocolate and a good cry.

Even the bad things about summer are proof that summer is good:

Bugs? Hate ‘em. But why do they come out during the spring? Because during winter they’re dead. Everything’s dead. It’s a dead season. Mother Nature is dead – the first lightning storm of the spring is like a giant defibrillator, starting her heart back up.

No lawn mowing during winter. Why? Grass is dead. No poison ivy during winter. Why? Dead. Snakes? Dead. No spiders during the winter. (Spiders are not bugs. Bugs are just bugs – spiders are evil.) Even spiders know dead when they see it, although many think it looks like the bottom of my shoe.

Hot and humid is unpleasant, I get that, but nobody's car ever slid into a snowbank because the sun was shining too much. No poor match girl ever froze to death under a shade tree during an Independence Day celebration.

Tornadoes? Terrible things, mile-wide vacuum cleaners. But blizzards have covered half the friggin’ country. Besides, no matter how strong it was, no meteorologist ever mentioned “tornado” in the same sentence as “wind chill”.

Winter even smells dead – spring smells of fresh cut grass, and lilacs, and that earthy scent that comes with a warm summer rain. And yes, it also smells of hot asphalt, and dairy farms, and sweat, but that’s a small price to pay for driving down a country road with the window open and breathing deeply as you pass a cornfield.

Pretty, isn't it? And DEAD.

Almost everything’s green, with patches of other bright colors like spotting a forgotten twenty dollar bill. Green is life. Winter has no color: It’s black and white and dead all over. I could also go for the cliché and mention the sounds – birds, frogs, insects, all more relaxing than the sound of sleet on siding, or furnaces kicking on. Finally, lest we forget, the feel of walking around in shorts and shirtsleeves, without the accompanying frostbite.

Warmth makes everything a little better. Sure, you can’t store your frozen goods on the back porch, but that’s a small price to pay for opening the window and breathing real air.

So come on out, Mother Nature, don’t be a tease. And don’t bother bringing your winter coat.

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Remember: When wrapped in plastic, books make good umbrellas. Use hardcover.

 I'm reposting this blog from last summer because, let's face it, you could post something about heat waves every summer. Okay, I'm actually doing it because I was busy working on the Haunted Noble County project and ran out of time. But they're talking about a 100 degree heat index tomorrow--something other parts of the country have been seeing all summer--so it still fits.

 _____________________________________________

This week has been so hot, "so hot" jokes have been trending.

There's only so much you can do with them, of course--they've been around a long time. One of the original European settlers, in the Roanoke Colony of Virginia, left a note that said "it's so hot we're moving to Plymouth". The settlers were never heard from again, after apparently getting lost on the Washington, D.C. beltway.

Just the same, it's been so hot even I've been uncomfortable, not that I'd admit it. I'd still take a heat wave over a cold snap, but that doesn't mean I like either one. I went out to mow the lawn at 9 a.m. the other day, and ended up going through five water bottles: Three in me and two over me. It was so hot the lawn mower started flashing an error light that said "water me".

"You think I'm leaving the shade without a drink, first? You just filled me with gasoline!"

I didn't know it even had error lights.

Fun fact: In order to clean my mower you have to connect a garden hose, which sprays water all over the inside of the mower deck while it runs, to clean the grass off. So, you DO have to water it.

Naturally, it's not just the heat up here. Last week was so humid that, after I mowed, I had to step into the shower to dry off. Relax, I'm not posting any photos of that.

Anything that was in full sunlight started to glow red, unless it was already red, in which case it started to glow orange. The fire hydrant down the street called me over and begged me to let my dog pee on it. I refused, being worried about steam burns.

"Don't worry about me peeing back at you, I can hold my water."

At one point the humidity level was 140%, which translated to a heat index of, and I quote, "broil". Jim Cantore came over from The Weather Channel to investigate how the humidity can actually be higher than 100%, and his cameraman drowned. Meanwhile, three people were blinded when the sun shone of Cantore's head. He was heard to say, "I'd rather have thundersnow". Speak for yourself, fella.

But I took advantage of it by letting the air conditioner drain its water into a bucket outside, then using the bucket to water my plants. By the way, if anyone needs any planters, I, uh, killed all my flowers with scalding water.

It's been especially rough for people who don't have air conditioners--or for people with no power at all, including the ones hit by the most recent thunderstorms and derechos. (It is too a real word--shut up, spell check.)

I tried to honor their crisis by going outside, at least long enough to mow the lawn. Their general response was that I was crazy, and could they stop by for several hours?

Anyway, eventually I had to go out again, to let the dog water that hydrant. The dog's response? "Um, no thanks ... I'll hold it."

"Nope. Uh-uh, not until the next cold snap hits in August."

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 Ironically, I got busy with the weather and didn't get a new blog written--but this one's from nine years ago, and in internet terms it might as well be brand new.

A funnel cloud. And no, I wasn't going to get any closer.

 

 As a group, humans have an amazing ability to screw themselves.

Not literally, mind you. I mean, if we could do that, we'd never leave the house.

Whenever bad weather approaches, I take it upon myself to warn people as much as I'm able, for two reasons: First, it's the decent thing to do. This is a foreign concept for some people, but it's not like it takes a lot of resources to type "Funnel cloud sighted! And by the way, buy my books in the Storm Chaser series."

Okay, so I throw in a commercial here and there: So does The Weather Channel.

Meh ... I've seen worse.

The second reason is laziness. I'm a dispatcher, and whenever severe weather hits we're guaranteed to be a lot busier. I don't like being a lot busier. A little busy is just fine, thank you.

So as soon as the experts (I'm not an expert--it turns out the words "meteorology" and "degree" go together) predicted foul weather for the upcoming Christmas weekend, I shouted it from the rooftops.

Okay, well, I shouted it from social media. Nobody really listens on the rooftops, anymore. Besides, it's slippery up there.

Some people appreciate the warning, and I like to think I've saved them some trouble, here and there. But the biggest response weather forecasts get is "Yeah, whatever--they're always wrong".

Which isn't true, but it is true that bad weather is notoriously difficult to predict in detail. Good weather's much easier--go figure.

Which brings us to the second and more common response: "Yeah, it probably won't even flurry." Followed by two parties and twelve beers, because we're talking about people who don't recognize danger signs.

"What's this crap? Why was I not notified?"

As of this moment, late Monday, forecasters are guaranteeing two things in northern Indiana this weekend: It'll be bitterly cold, and it'll be so windy I'll be bitter. It also appears pretty certain that--surprise!--the whole thing will begin with rain on Thursday.

More rain means less snow. I'm all for that, except for the strong cold front and the whole flash freezing thing. Flash Freezing is not a DC comic villain, people.

Everyone is stressing over snow, and as of now the forecast really is between 2 and 18 inches. It depends on the track of the storm and how far the wind drives lake effect snow, but here's the part people ignore: While we may get the low end of that scale, there's no reason why we shouldn't get the high end. To compare, during the Blizzard of '78 Fort Wayne got about 17 inches of snow. Somebody in the Midwest is going to get that much this weekend. Why not us?

Given the choice, I'd prefer my car remain in the driveway. All winter.

Forget snow amounts, and consider this: There is more than one kind of blizzard. One type often happens after snowstorms, when sustained strong winds blow the fallen snow around, causing drifting and extreme driving hazards.

Snow, followed by cold temps and long-term strong winds?

That's the forecast for this weekend.

So I'm just the messenger, with some reminders:

Four wheel drive is useless on ice. The only good your big truck might do is help compensate for something.

Many emergency vehicles and tow trucks do NOT have four wheel drive, and 4WD might not get through severe drifting, anyway. So if you have to go out, stock your vehicle with whatever you might need to survive for awhile.

Most county and municipal snow plows will not be out 24/7. They have only one shift, and the drivers need rest. If you have to go out stick to main roads, but remember: If it gets bad enough long enough, the Indiana Department of Transportation might have to pull their plows off the road, also.

If your employer requires you to come to work no matter what the road conditions, you need a new employer. Or let them come pick you up, if they think it's not bad. With the exception of essential jobs (like mine, but I can slog down the sidewalk), there's no reason to endanger someone for the sake of a paycheck.

Utility companies also can't come out if the roads are blocked. Make preparations for long-term power outages.

Here's the fun part: Almost everything done to prepare for a snowstorm should be done to prepare for any disaster or weather emergency. Food, water, medicine, warmth, books, not necessarily in that order.

You might think I'm kidding about the books, but if you have kids at home you need to look after your own sanity, and locking them in the garage is not socially acceptable. Remember, whatever they do to pass the time, they'll run out of battery power sooner or later.

As for me, don't you worry: I may have to work this weekend, but I'll dress warmly.

My other car is a sleigh!

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It was easy for me, though: I was a kid. I didn't have a paid job, I wasn't a volunteer firefighter yet, and I didn't even have to go to school for a week. Yeah, there was snow shoveling, but we have that now.

We've been spoiled since then, here in northeast Indiana. Sure, there were bad snowstorms, especially in the eighties when it snowed nonstop for eight months of the year. Well, it seemed that way. To compare, the big snowstorm of 2009 dropped 13 inches of snow here. The '78 storm topped out at 30.6 inches, and killed 70 people in Indiana.

So when we tell "Well, in my day" stories about snow--we don't have to exaggerate.

Now we're expecting at least a foot of snow, in two waves over two days, with the Thursday portion accompanied by 30 mph winds. This is bad. And--this is going to sound ironic, coming from me--I don't think people are taking it seriously enough.

Well, some people are.

I went to the store early Monday, and apparently a lot of the panic shopping happened over the weekend. By the time I left an hour later, it looked like the locusts were stripping away all the grain in Oklahoma.

Maybe I'm worrying needlessly. Just the same, I did everything in my power to keep the storm from happening at all. See, I have a reputation for my predictions being wrong. A lot. So when we had good weather all through December (for December), I loudly proclaimed that we would pay for it in January and February.

Okay, so sometimes I'm right. But when forecasts of this particular storm started coming in, I took quick action to stop it:

I loaded up at the store, stuffing our freezer and cupboards with so much food we look like a survivalist compound.

I refilled all my meds, especially the ones that keep me from turning all Jack Torrance every winter.

"Here's J-J-J-J-brrrrrr.......

I topped off the car's gas tank, and made sure it held a snow shovel, blankets, snack bars, abrasives, and a flashlight that actually lights. Also, a little fake hand with the middle finger up, so I won't get frostbite flashing reckless drivers the bird. I did all that despite the fact that I have absolutely no intention of going anywhere for the next week, other than work. Work is three quarters of a mile away--I can, and have, walked there, even in bad weather.

On a related note, I prepared my winter underclothes and my winter over clothes, just in case I do have to walk. People might report a Jupiter-sized suspicious subject in a ski mask, but these days masks are more expected than they used to be.

I made sure the dog has lines going out both the front and back door, so all I have to do is buckle him in. If he wants to go out in that crap--to crap--he's on his own.

"Wait ... what?"

I charged our cell phones, and my Kindle, in case power goes out and we have to burn our books for heat. (Kidding! It would be way too sad reading e-books by the glow of a book fire.)

I studied the weather forecasts. Okay, I studied two dozen forecasts in a three state area. (Hey, I work in the emergency services.) I worried when they all started agreeing with each other. Although bad weather is notoriously difficult to predict, the guys and gals who go to school for that stuff are getting increasingly good at it, even though armchair meteorologists prefer to think otherwise. May the Blue Bird of Unhappiness drop an ice bomb on their foreheads.

After confirming the forecasts, I started shouting the warning out, long and loud, to anyone who passed by the street corner downtown. Okay, on social media. There was no excuse, I declared, for not being prepared, so be aware and take a care--ahem. Sorry.

Why? Because if my predictions are usually wrong, then maybe all that prep would cause mischievous Mother Nature to nudge the storm, one way or another, just enough for us to get six inches and a breeze instead of sixteen inches and a blow. It's the same reason why sports fans hire me to root for the other team. You're welcome, Bengals.

Will it work?

Well ... no. If I thought it would work, it wouldn't. That's how it works. I mean, doesn't work. As I write this it's early Tuesday, and by this time Wednesday it'll be clear we're in for a big time butt-kicking. Remember, the Four Horses of the Snowpocalypse  are Cold, Snow, Wind, and Shattered Hopes.

But that won't stop me from trying.

https://youtu.be/UWU8aLgO71E

 

 I posted this video of a cold air funnel on my little-used YouTube page (and previously on Instagram, which is a bit more used.) Now that I think of it, it was quite a day for us: We were on our way to the drive-in, our first trip to the movies in something like two years (Black Widow and The Boss Baby: Family Business, both good). On the way, being half-starved, we stopped at McDonalds, also for the first time in about two years. (chicken nuggets and cheeseburger, both okay). I noticed what looked to me a lot like a wall cloud to the south, and as we waited at the stop light nearby, sure enough, a rotating funnel came down out of it.

Luckily I'd already heard cold air funnels might be developing, or I'd have squealed like a toddler and wanted to chase it. By the time we got to the drive-in it had vanished, but as we waited another one came down (or the same one again), so I zoomed my iPhone all the way in and managed to get a serviceable video.

Cold air funnels are kind of baby tornadoes, or maybe supersized dust devils. I've seen a few before, and even on those few occasions when they do touch ground, they rarely cause any damage. Just the same, I'd imagine they gave some people between Auburn and Fort Wayne a bit of a scare, if they happened to be looking up at the time.

 I woke up late and had a fire department meeting in an hour, and it was a horrible day for a drive, so we went for a drive.

In our defense, it was a time-sensitive errand ... and we didn't know it would be a bad day for a drive. As I dragged myself out of bed Emily told me about a line of thunderstorms to the west, but we were headed east. Surely we could get things done and be back before it hit.

We didn't know it was a derecho, which is meteorological term meaning "big honking storm like a hurricane except in the middle of the country", which wouldn't have fit as easily in a headline. We also didn't take into consideration that the system was moving at 60 mph. By the time we got back it was, as the old timers say, all over but the shouting.

Just after we turned back I crested a hill on a country road and almost ran down a group of wild turkeys. Um, flock. Herd? Wait, let me look it up ...

Huh. Rafter. A group of turkeys is called a rafter. Who'da thunk it? Anyway, that was my first clue that this wouldn't be an ordinary trip.

Your rafter may vary.

There would be a lot of shouting. And wind. And those big huge drops of rain that look like there's a bucket full in each drop, and yeah, a little hail mixed in with that. We hit some of that, then about five miles out of town Emily told me the clouds were rotating, which I could believed because by then the western third of Noble County was under a tornado warning. (We were under a thunderstorm warning, which in retrospect seems underwhelming. It occurs to me there should be a derecho warning, or possibly they could call it a land hurricane, which sounds cooler.)

We pulled over at a good spot to watch. (In other words, safe.) I got out to see, yes indeed, there was a small rotating wall cloud going over our heads. I never thought to get some video, which is odd, because I'm usually all about grabbing the camera; but I stayed standing outside the car long enough to see it wasn't just a random cross wind--it was, indeed, rotating. I didn't see a funnel, and so far as I know all the damage around Noble County came from straight line winds ... which did just fine by themselves, thank you.

Emily, who's much smarter than me, and the dog, who's also no dummy, had stayed in the car. So I was the only one who got clobbered when another wall of those bucket-sized raindrops reached us.

We tried to drive on, but have you ever tried to drive while inside an automatic car wash?

You have? What the heck's the matter with you?!?

So we didn't drive, for a while, having found another place to get completely off the roadway. Eventually we went on, once all the foliage around us was no longer leaning at a 90 degree angle. Or 75 degree. Or ... oh, who am I fooling? I hated math. They were blowing sideways, okay?

Now, people can sometimes cause problems by trying to do the right thing. As we inched down the highway, an oncoming car flashed its high beams to get out attention. It was probably the driver who did it, not the car, but never mind.

They were trying to warn me, but it had the opposite effect, because I was looking at that passing car when Emily said "TREE!"

My wife doesn't yell about trees unless they suddenly appear in front of us, in the twilight haze of sideways rain. It had blocked about half of State Road 8, and it wasn't something I was going to move, so I called the Sheriff Department business number.

It was busy.

Different storm, same action.

You gotta understand, that just doesn't happen often. My first impulse was just to leave them alone, but the tree was across a state highway, after all. I got through by portable radio, and after we determined we'd do more harm than good if we stayed where we were, we headed back toward Albion.

That's when we came across a tree branch, halfway across the road from the other side, but this one was something we thought we could do something about. It was obviously just a large, dead branch, so we hopped out, dodging cats and dogs (still raining, you see), ran over to it, and realized it was way bigger than we'd thought from inside the dry car, where the dog was laughing at us.

Okay, it was a tree.

But it was a dead tree, so by hauling on it together, we were able to break the worst of it off. then we threw the larger broken branches off the roadway, and then we got the heck out of dodge, because dodge was a highway and visibility wasn't exactly 100%. Especially since the pavement was starting to flood, and who knew which way other drivers were looking?

 Yeah, I missed the fire meeting.

But we made it home safely, and we had dry clothes, and even electricity, which is more than a lot of other people could stay. The moral of the story is, I suppose, the same as it's been all year:

Stay home.

(Just the same, after we were safely home I looked at Emily and said, "But now that it's over, it was kinda fun, wasn't it?" She agreed. The dog was a dissenting vote. And this attitude is how people get into trouble.)

I suppose I should advertise my novel Storm Chaser here, but the weather was a windbag enough for all of us.