Yesterday, the wind howled.
The trees danced.
Some trees tipped over sideways, crashing onto the forest floor with a large BOOM!
“Gosh, I haven’t seen wind like this in ages,” I said to Barry. “How strong do you think it is?”
“Fifty miles per hour?” he suggested.
The wind gusted.
The trees creaked and groaned and bent sideways and sometimes crashed.
Electric green spring leaves drifted downward as the wind continued its frenzy and rain drops beat a wild spring storm tune.
Somewhere around 2:30 p.m. a nearby tree crashed on the power line.
We nodded. No electricity. We’re used to this routine.
No problem. We had cleverly filled a bucket with water for flushing the toilet.
I phoned in our outage to the Ontonagon County Rural Electrical Association. The automated voice assured that crews would be working to restore power in L’Anse, Skanee and Aura (all mispronounced). Just have patience, please.
After the rain, the crying started. Weeping and wailing out on the yard. We investigated. ‘Twas a baby robin whose nest probably flew to Kingdom Come before he was prepared to fly. The nest–meant to protect him for another day or six–disappeared in a huge wind gust.
He simply did not know how to propel heavenward.
So he bawled.
His mama and papa hopped nearby for a while, attempting to placate. Fed him a couple of garden worms. Nothing worked.
Mama then got the brilliant idea to dive-bomb and attack her baby in an attempt to send him skyward.
That didn’t work either. Baby cried and cried and cried.
Baby finally attempted jumping. Leaping. Fluttering his wings. (Guess he figured it was more productive than bawling and bothering any soft-hearted humans who kept cheering him on.)
Even though these pictures are not vivid high-quality shots, what the heck, eh? I want to show you the SPIRIT of that baby robin. Don’t you feel like projecting with him, instructing him how to fly? Don’t you almost feel like YOU can fly, just to get him off the ground?
I am 95% certain Baby Robin finally flew. We won’t talk about the other 5% option. The crying ceased. (Except for the humans who, by 8:15 p.m. were now crying thinking about the food melting and dripping in the refrigerator-freezers.)
The repair crews showed up and fixed the downed wires by 9:15 p.m. We waited for the power to resurrect. Nothing happened! We went to bed weeping even harder–no, I exaggerate. We weren’t weeping. I am using literary license again, trying to compare us to the birds.
I Could Not Sleep Most of the Night. Maybe dozed for three hours. Somehow waiting and listening for the hum of the refrigerator, for the purr of electricity. I could have cried by 6 a.m. when arising and noting the electricity-less state of affairs.
I could have cried at 11 a.m. when returning from work (where the Internet had crashed and the girl’s toilet ceased working) to *still no power*. My usual high spirits flew off with the bird.
That’s when I discovered that all the neighbors regained their electricity at 9:15 p.m.! What dismal fate!
Just before we lost everything in the refrigerator, the nice repairman pulled in the driveway. He discovered that an oak branch shorted our transformer. He offered to cut some branches off Said Oak Tree, thereby hopefully preventing a future repeat.
Twenty one hours later the sweet hum of electricity filled our Little House in the Big Woods.
Baby Robin chirped somewhere in the trees, singing.
Everyone can cease their weeping now, can’t we?