One of my clients dashes out the back door as soon as I open it and heads into the yard for a potty break; the other gets close and then scooches backward, tail tucked. “Come on, Sweet Girl,” I tell her. “I know you have to pee after being inside all day.” But she refuses. “Whatever,” I say and leave the door open when I go outside in case she changes her mind.
I had pulled into the driveway only three minutes before, but suddenly the sky is… different. Three hours’ darker, and the wind–my god, what is happening. It thunders, loud and close. I call the Good Boy, he gallops back, and we duck inside. The lightning and thunder are simultaneous and angry.
The noise that comes next is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s a sound, yes, but also a feeling, like a Mack truck running into the wall. The lights go out. “Holy shit!” I yell. The boys and I gawk out the window, and all we see is a snarl of green and brown. The same door I’d just walked through is blocked by limbs and branches.
Arlo starts crying; Patrick is clearly frightened too. “It’s OK,” I tell them. “We’re OK.” And I shuffle them into their room. Patrick climbs in his bunk, and I snuggle Arlo in his.
Every time it thunders, Arlo wails, “Off!”
“I can’t turn it off, buddy,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”
I continue to coo at him and rub his back for fifteen minutes until I hear the rain stop. The sky brightens, and I peel myself off the bed and walk out the front door. It’s sunny. The landscape is littered with leaves and sticks. The giant willow oak had indeed dropped a 30-foot branch by my back door. The gutter is bent and dangling. Dang, I think, that’s gonna take some work.
I circle around the other side of the house and gawk. On my roof is a branch. But see, that word doesn’t really do service to it. The oak itself is at least a dozen feet in circumference, so this “branch” is more like the trunk of a regular-sized tree. I definitely couldn’t wrap my arms around it all the way. And it’s on my roof. On my roof? In my roof. There’s a hole, about the size of a minivan in my roof. The branch extends beyond the edge–the whole soffit’s ripped off–and down into the yard. Two 8-foot sections of my fence are smashed to smithereens.
“Fuck,” I say.
My neighbor Luis comes over. “You want me to get it off your roof?” he asks. “I do this kind of work.”
Stunned, I tell him sure, and he heads off to get his chainsaw. I forget to ask him how much.
My brother-in-law comes down with his chainsaw too, and the two of them ascend to the roof and buzz away at it until dark. They barely make a dent.
Inside, my bathroom floor is soaked–rain must’ve poured through the vent–and insulation hangs through a hole in my bedroom ceiling.
“Fuuuuuuuuuck,” I say.
I sleep terribly. Mid-August in central North Carolina is beastly, unlivable without air conditioning, but power is out in a huge swath of the city, and Duke Energy estimates it’ll take days, maybe a week, to repair the damage.
In the morning, I duct tape my fridge door closed to remind me not to open it, and we go in search of a McDonald’s that has power. The boys are delighted–McMuffins and pancakes, what could be better?
Back home, I inspect the damage again. Somehow it looks worse than the day prior. Phone calls to my insurance company don’t go through–I’ll learn later they have no power or internet either. I don’t own a chainsaw; I don’t even own loppers. I stand in the yard with my hands on my hips. It’s humid as fuck already, and the sun’s only been up two hours. Tears brim in my eyes. I text my family: I feel so helpless.
My brother texts back: You’re not helpless. You’re doing exactly the right thing under the circumstances. You are a rockstar of competence. Even rockstars have to deal with the early stages of a crisis by going to McDonald’s sometimes.
Just then, my brother-in-law stops by with his loppers and a hatchet. He has to go back to work, but his tools allow me to start clearing. I hack at a limb and drag it to the street. I hack another. And another. And within fifteen minutes, my mindset has totally changed. I think, it could’ve been worse. I think, the roof did its job. I think, that’s what homeowner’s insurance is for. I think, Jesus Christ, I’m gonna get my steps in today.
And I do, I cut and clear brush for almost ten hours. My phone tells me I have walked 9.37 miles.
The roof will get replaced. The fence will get patched. All I have to do is feed my kids and put one foot in front of the other.
Joan Baez said, “Action is the antidote to despair.”
Ain’t it though.
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