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HELLACIOUS STORMS

by FRANK O'DONNELL
AUGUST 13, 2006

The forecast called for storms moving through, so I can't say we were caught unaware. Besides, it's been a summer filled with hellacious storms – real fire and brimstone, the sort of storms you only read about in the Old Testament.    

We had just unpacked the cars, returning from our week at the Cape, and were settling in when the skies suddenly got very, very dark. Followed by the skies getting very, very light. The lightning was blinding and frequent. 

The window-rattling thunder coincided precisely with the lightning. We were in the thick of it. Rain pelted the house, and all manner of debris blew down the street – including at one point a mean old lady on a bicycle.

Floridians are accustomed to storms like this throughout the summer.

Meteorological nastiness is a daily event on the peninsula. I don't know how, but they get used to it. "Honey, it's clouding up. Tell the kids to get ready. We can toast marshmallows on the lightning strikes!"

Five minutes into the storm, an explosion rumbled frighteningly nearby, followed by an eerie crackling. Blue flashes lit up the backyard. Our house was plunged into darkness.

It was like a Hollywood special effects team had decided to shoot an epic space battle on my roof. It didn't help that we'd seen "Independence Day" a couple of times in the past few weeks.

 "Dad, it's the Martians!" said Patrick.

I reassured him that only happened in movies. Still, I sneaked a look out the window, just to be sure there were no alien spacecraft hovering above my chimney.

Sirens signaled approaching emergency vehicles. The storm had toppled a tree across the street, and it came down on the power lines running alongside my backyard. The blue lights and explosion were courtesy of the transformer on the pole at the end of my driveway. That made my house ground zero.

The tree completely blocked the road. Its crown was suspended mid-air by the wires, saving a passing car from being crushed.

Firemen established a safety zone with yellow Caution tape, while police officers blocked the road above and below the tree. A representative of the electric company showed up a while later, shortly after a high-ranking DPW official.

"We've got 25 trees down," he told me, looking harried. "Power's out all over town. No traffic lights on Mineral Spring Avenue."

Some good news there. No one ever pays attention to the lights on MSA anyway. Their non-working status would not have any effect on traffic flow.

The electric company guy surveyed the situation, discussing it on his walkie-talkie. Moments later, the tree sparked and popped where it made contact with the wires.

The electric company guy screamed into his walkie-talkie while scurrying for cover, using terms that were both technical and foul. Someone had powered up our sector prematurely, causing the mini arboreal explosion.

By now, the rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. A little crowd had gathered outside the Caution-taped perimeter, and there were oohs! and aahs! among them. Next time this happens, I'm charging a cover.

People had been drawn to the blue flashes like moths to a Bug Zapper. "I thought your house exploded," a few said, sounding disappointed that it hadn't.

A bucket truck pulled up, and two tree experts made quick work of cutting the tree off the wires. The crown ended up in my backyard, with segments of the trunk lining both sides of the road.

"Who cleans up the rest of this?" I asked the DPW guy. He held up his finger to indicate that he was getting a call on his wireless phone.

"Gotta go," he told me, hopping into his truck and driving away. "Now it's 26 trees."

We never did resolve who was responsible for the clean up. So now I've got enough firewood to last a couple of seasons. Maybe that will be enough to get the squirrels out of the chimney.