A fantastically violent thunderstorm blasted into our valley yesterday evening. Golfballs the size of hail battered the roof for a half-hour. The house's gutter system was utterly overpowered, and great gouts of water torrented from the eaves.
Naturally, as pretty much always happens in any weather at all, the power went out, not to return until early this morning. Betty and Freddie were forced out of their teen-caves, the storm having severed their digital and televisual connections to the World of Dreams. They roamed the house, at first bewildered at the blistering son-et-lumière being put on by an angry god, and then, after its passing, moaning of boredom.
We lit candles and a butane lamp and camped out on the screened porch -- a delightfully cool place with all those golfballs melting in the surrounding lawn. We got out the Scrabble board and played a round. (I took some shit for "duvet" -- a double-word score that pretty much wiped the competition flat in the early going. Freddie: "What's a doo-vet?" You won't learn those gems on "World of Warcraft," my young flesh and blood. You might consider an improving work of literature now and then. He said lovingly.)
There arose a slightly unsettling consensus that we were quite enjoying each others' company.
It may just occur to us to pull the plug some more -- that fusebox can be padlocked, you know.