The neighborhood goes dark, back to the 1800's. As the wind thrashes the windows and moans through the maples, I backtrack through the house, turning off the oven, the TV, the lights--all those 21st century appliances. The storm's intensity is making Callie uneasy. She follows me around the house, hard on my heels. I give her a reassuring hug.Callie and I hunker by the woodstove, the lanterns giving off a warm yellow glow. Her fur, rain-softened, tickles my nose. She must sense my worry. The remaining 100 year old maple has stood steadfast through a century of storms. I'm hoping it will make it through the 60 mile an hour winds, and the thawed muddy ground, softened around its roots.
On a February night, this should be snow, banking the house to the sills, drifting over the sleeping gardens, blanketing the roof with a layer of insulation. The rain runoff has braided streams of meltwater on the back slope leaving islands of ice like a riparian delta. A steady stream tinkles down the gutter. We're getting an April-like downpour, thrusting global warming into our faces. How can it be denied with weird weather like this?
With the high-tech entertainment down for the duration of the storm, it's time to catch up on that pile of library books by the corner chair. With the lamp by my side, I delved into the top book on the stack...and drift away.
