Batten down the hatches and secure the rigging! A storm is on it’s way.
At least I think it is. Wind-storm warnings have been headlining the local news, and I hear a bit of whipping about out there. Earlier, the windows were rattling with an occasional large gust, but other than that . . . it is quiet; and I am trying to sense if it is a normal quiet . . . or, you know, one filled with foreboding.
It feels foreboding-ish. Mike is out of town – which makes me feel, inexplicably, that, at any moment, any number of things could go horribly wrong. I certainly haven’t properly secured the rigging. I sent Abe out to make sure the lid was shut tight on the chicken feed and Goldie to bring her guinea pig in from his precious outdoor home (precious to me – I love when he is not in our house). Meanwhile, I brought two strollers into the garage and pulled the garbage cans into a somewhat sheltered spot. Then I just stood there. Shivering. Looking at the large pile of tree branches and bush trimmings sitting on our front lawn, waiting to be hauled away. I pictured them flying across the road, causing cars to swerve and crash; or littering all of our neighbors’ lawns with debris. Then I bit my lip. Scowled thoughtfully. Looked over my shoulder as if, perhaps, I might find the answer there. Then I shivered some more. Gave a little half shrug. And went into the house.
Securing the rigging is for husbands. . . . And sailors.
So, now I wait: thankful to have a roof and solid, safe walls surrounding us; and hoping that all the little people snuggled up in their beds sleep despite any potentially fearsome and loud winds whipping about their windows . . . or, possibly, slamming unsecured trimmed branches into their windows.
In the mean time: A few pictures of the little boys this afternoon – safe and sound – oblivious to any potential storms that might be ahead: figurative or literal. Sometimes I kind of wish I could keep them this way. All safe and snug and unaware of storms: dealing only with such issues as how to take a toy apart or how to not fall off kitchen-table chairs. (Just such an event was the cause of the little tear remaining on Anders’ cheek post hug. He got carried away and drove one of his little cars further than his legs could reach . . . and down he went. Poor little guy. He would only cry and hug for a minute before it was back to driving. He’s rather fond of toy cars.)
(I love this picture. I don’t know what Jesse is thinking, but I am quite certain he is trying to figure something out. His life is figuring things out.)