There's something fearful about storms, always has been. The obvious reminder of who controls the heavens becomes blatantly obvious when clouds begin to roll in like some supernatural army. It's poetry, really. And reading enough novels and poems over the years, no author can really capture the essence of nature. Walt Whitman comes close, and in a pinch, I'd take the cinematography of some random Oscar winning movie where the landscape plays more of a role than a villain.
Tonight's blackout of the Cordova home was proceeded by the typical ominous signs--the porch umbrella that twists and jostles, an upturned flower pot, the ripples of the pool water, grayness. The lights flicker, the computer inevitably has to be shut down, and you wonder how long before the fan begins its final twirl, if just maybe this once, that will be the end of power for a very long time.
The kids had already fallen asleep from the rigors of play, their sweat and stick already enveloping my wife. The anxiousness of sweat dotted my forehead, despite the opening of windows after the storm had passed. The kids eventually awoke. The seeds of hunger escape from their lips. Plans are made, money transferred. Movie or dinner? I rigged the garage door to free us from captivity, the lonesomeness of lost electricity.
So the trek begins. This is the scene of the Armageddon movie you never witness. That first drive onto the road, spotting downed trees, wondering if you really heard the sound of an ambulance in the distance. The initial traffic jam is inevitable and so begins the patience. Years ago, in Houston perhaps, there would have been no driving around on a blackout. The traffic there is bad enough when electricity is working. We pass the first fried chicken joint before the flood of indecision comes between my wife and I. Flavor v. budget. Budget v whims. Whims v kids' preference. The hamburger joint we decide on has no empty seats. We both realize the wait for anything, with the entire town blacked out, is going to be a long one. Our attire is hoping we don't decide to walk from the car in public. People may stare.
We head back into town with the onslaught of residents already taken a head start. The right side of the strip blinks with electricity. The left side is vacant. Further ahead, after about 30 minutes of driving, we realize our second destination is without power. We forge ahead, suburbanites on a trek for sustenance. The lines around McDonalds curve around the parking lots.
We make another 20 minute drive to another chicken joint. The parking there hasn't been as well thought out as the one in the suburbs. The inside is closed. Vans are backing up into the line dangerously close to the sides of the car. People look hurried. One man, the stereotypical redneck in large-tired truck and jeans, is accompanied by a young female in the type of shorts a father would disown a daughter for. The drive through line does not move, albeit for the two cars that inched out of line for a greater trek to be blogged about on other websites. Choices are made. We follow suit.
By the time we circled back to our original point of destination, at least an hour and a half had passed. The van DVD had played, restarted, finished and replayed again. Both our phones were charged 20% (they too suffered from the impatience of their users after the blackout), I had a 17 minute conversation with my father about Batman and family reunions while contemplating how many mashed potatoes we would order with our meal.
On the drive home I was thankful for the time. Ironically, the movie the kids watched heavy-handedly God-spoke these well worn mantras about spending quality time with your kids, lest they end up on a movie screen somewhere fighting secret agents without their parents' whereabouts. The conversation with my dad, the summaries of our jobs and our attitudes, the day we had at the pool serving our many friends and their kids.
Sometimes I read how many think prayers aren't answered, or how the prayers are self-centered or materialistic. In my case, I too become jaded. That wondering says more about us than God. If he can give me, a man who deserves little, the extra time to plan, to talk, to be with my family, why can't I turn the dial on the heavy-handed God-speak all the time? I wish it was as simple as ordering mashed potatoes.
No comments:
Post a Comment