It seems hurricanes have had a tremendous impact on me that I do not knowingly carry with me from earlier life. I have distinct memories of hurricanes from my younger days, but in the past few (which have seemed like weeks, by the way) one thought keeps coming to me: ' but that was when my father was in charge.' My father was pretty fearless about most things and a few shingles off the roof or the necessity for gutter repair didn't exactly faze him. He had an extreme respect for trees and I do not think it ever occurred to him that they might betray him and fall on his house. Even if one did, I think he would just think of it as trees doing what trees do and excitedly get involved with repairing the result. The aftermath of a hurricane would find him climbing said trees far too high into their branches to trim damaged limbs. In my third summer from college, on one such ascent, my father fell 75+ feet out of a tree in our backyard. He broke his back, punctured his lung and spent a great deal of time in recovery. Actually, I do not think he ever really recovered because I never saw him scamper up a tree again, and I think he would have! The same tree that he fell from in the summer of 1983, which I now am guessing occurred after a hurricane or at least a tropical storm, suffered great damage from the hurricane this week. In fact, my husband spent all day yesterday cutting a huge limb from it (1/4 of the tree's volume) that thankfully fell in the middle of our backyard and not on anyone or anything.
Said tree was always referred to as my brother's. Two huge trees grew in our yard and towered over everything in the neighborhood as far as the eye could see in those days. They grew side by side, 'though a necessary distance apart, and since there were two trees and two of us, we took individual possession of them. Mine was taller and leaner and had many more branches that formed natural chairs as well as more that provided places to swing from. His was thicker, squatter, and, at least by my standards, was not as much fun. In later years, his tree was one post of a run for our dog and nowadays it is one post of my clothesline.
How that limb snapped on Sunday night without waking any of us up, I will never know. I regret now that I didn't take a photo, but my husband gave me no indication that he would so quickly begin to transform it into logs. I remember saying to a friend on Monday morning "It will take MANY men to pull it out of there." That is a sentence which reveals my ignorance. Of course, that is not what you do with a fallen tree--- or even part of one. What do I know? Only vague memories of climbing them obsessively to sit in and dream in or to hurl my body from through the air towards ground after swinging enough times to gain the proper momentum. Maybe I stopped thinking much about those activities when I walked nonchalantly towards the back screened door while drying dishes that summer day in 1983 to see my father lying on the ground beneath my brother's tree. At first I thought he was napping or stretching out his back... but that slow progression of thought and reaction that happens with every tragedy began a second or two later and I remember slowly looking up and up in a straight line from where he lay up and up the tree noting broken branch upon broken branch. Slowly the words formed in my mind , silent and deafening at the same time "HE FELL."
When I went out, I did not take certain knowledge that he was hurt with me. This was my father after all! Closer, I practically whispered "Dad?" because I wasn't sure if he was asleep. He replied. "Yeah...." "You fell from up there???" "Yeah. Do me a favor and get me a cigarette... (pause) Where's your mother?" My mother was asleep, I reported as I dutifully handed him his cigarette and a matchbook, but it was then that I realized he had begun to emerge from shock and only after a protracted conversation in which I had to gain PERMISSION to call an ambulance did I do so. That was a LONG conversation and my powers of persuasion with such a man were rather limited. It was the increasing pain, the shaking that was becoming more violent and his difficulty breathing that made him finally give in to the idea at just about the same moment I was willing to be defiant.
So... apparently wild weather and I have a long history I have been ignoring. I was thinking only of last year's run in with a wave that pulled me into the ocean.... but there are other hurricane memories I had not been considering. AND knowledge that trees can be dangerous that I had buried deep as well. AND as much as my face is sometimes a map of his, and as much as our senses of humor were remarkably similar, in hurricane response, I am not necessarily my father's daughter. I will not be climbing any trees with a hand saw in tow. I will be calling a 'tree guy' to examine the viability of most of the trees that I have kept company with for my nearly five decades. And anything questionable is coming down purposefully. This isn't what my father would do, I know. Next to all I know about my father and trees and his love of extreme weather I am holding what I think he would want for me. Namely, less anxiety. Against that, too, I am holding that motto above: Dance, Sing, Laugh... LIVE.
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For entries related to LAST YEAR's close encounter with a hurricane, follow links below:
http://wingedmigration-cmc.blogspot.com/2010/09/i-miss-my-father.html
http://wingedmigration-cmc.blogspot.com/2010/09/well-my-father-would-be-smirking.html
http://wingedmigration-cmc.blogspot.com/2010/09/around-2-pm-yesterday-i-stopped.html
As always, click on the photos to enlarge. Click twice to enlarge more!
