This weekend wore me right out. It could've been the sun and the heat, or it could've been the buzzing crowds down at the Folk Festival, or it could have, possibly and probably, been all those pesky near-death experiences I had.
C'est la vie.
Friday night, I was at the Folk Fest with Hannah. The night was warm and clear and beautiful, the kind that lets every note of every song ring right out into the night sky with nothing to stifle it--but then this crazy storm came up out of nowhere. The rain was falling straight sideways and the thunder was rolling in one long continuous wave that had no breaks or seams, only dramatic crescendos which built and built and built until you weren't sure if the sound was coming from above or below or within.
I was in the car by the time the real business started going down. Sullivan was asleep in his car seat and didn't even wake up when the hail started pounding his window. We got him home and Barclay brought towels and coats from the house to wrap him in for the sprint from the car to the front door. We were drenched, but he was dry.
Something was off in our house. I sensed it the second we walked in the door. It took me a minute, but I slowly realized what it was as I stood there in the middle of the kitchen removing layers of dripping wet jackets: the power was out, but I could still see. It was 10:30 pm. The lightning, like the thunder, was a constant, eerie flickering--enough to dimly light the room. The weather network reported the next day that the count was 350 lightning strikes per minute. I lit a candle anyway.
I unwrapped Sullivan and brought him into the nursery to put him in his crib, when a crack of thunder ripped through the room like a monster truck. "I jumped" is an understatement and an overstatement. Outwardly, I was completely still but all of my internal organs were rearranged in an instant and I think my heart might still be down in my left foot.
That monster truck sound, I discovered, is what it sounds like when your next door neighbour's house is struck by lightning.
Sullivan slept through that, too.
We survived the storm, obviously, and had a fairly uneventful Saturday. More Folk Fest and some good naps.
On Sunday, Barclay was playing at a charity fundraiser, and I went along to be proud of him. The day was beautiful and the event was beautiful, and the food was beautiful. But the weather had some unfinished business with me, I guess.
I was sitting across from my mum-in-law, Ruth, and Sullivan was sleeping in my arms, and I was eating this dainty mushroom pastry, when behind her I noticed
I'm trying to think of a way to say this that doesn't make it sound like I'm exaggerating or making stuff up. I'm not, I promise.
I noticed a table behind her floating up into the air. There. That sounds believable. Right?
There were three old ladies sitting at the table, and they seemed as surprised as me, maybe more. Maybe.
Logical explanation time: The tables were attached to big umbrellas. A gust of wind, maybe leftover from Friday's storm, snuck up underneath this particular one and lifted it into the air, wine glasses, appetizers and all. A server, who was hovering nearby with a tray of sliders and fish paté, stepped in quickly and held the table down. But the umbrella, which had already gotten up its momentum, sailed through the air like a torpedo--straight at me.
Thankfully, Ruth and a few other quick-thinkers got ahold of the thing as it shot past them, slowing it down enough that by the time it hit me it didn't hit very hard at all. Sullivan cried a little, probably more due to the screams and shouts around us than anything, but then he was chill about it too. All's well that ends well. That's what they say.
But then when we got home, there was a spider the size of a small concert hall, just hanging out in my bathroom like, "What?" That scared me more than the lightning strike right outside my window and the Hurtling Umbrella O' Certain Impalement put together, actually. I gasped my tonsils out.
So now it's Monday. Hopefully the week ahead is a little less scary.