I usually write about smaller spaces, repurposing, and communal + multigenerational living, but today’s letter is a personal story about the very thin line between careful planning and mind-boggling, once-in-a-lifetime luck.
At 6:25 am, the alarm clock on my husband’s phone went off as it does six days a week. It was still dark, and we were slow to rise from bed. We’d been awake on-and-off for hours, as our 18 year-old dog and our two children have experienced restless nights all summer long.
At 6:26, my husband stepped out of bed to start the day when a thunderous ripping sounded from the other side of the wall behind him. In the dim light cast by the intercom, our eyes met, mutually alight with sudden awareness. With the sun not yet up and the blinds down, we couldn’t see outside, but we knew where the sound was coming from just the same.
The base of the live oak closest to our little house — a colossal tree estimated to be between 300 and 500 years old — was slowly splitting apart and tipping in our direction. The bottom of the tree was sinking deeper into the soil as it broke, and the whole behemoth was collapsing under the shifting weight. Branches that had stretched 65-feet above the ground for the entirety of my lifetime were now plunging down to the sandy meadow just beneath our windows. Several of these enormous limbs, which were themselves the size of substantial trees, momentarily buttressed the fall until they each snapped, one by one, from the force of it all.
Something scraped the metal roof above Adam’s side of the bed. A loud pop and a flash of light through the dark told us that the power line on the other side of the meadow was coming down.
I raced to the kids’ room, swept our toddler from her bed, and pulled her 7 year-old sibling by his arm towards the front door. Just beyond their bedside windows, branches were thudding down into the Spanish needles below. The kids groggily inquired what was happening, and remarked that they were barefoot. I told them not to worry — to just run with me. Meanwhile, Adam hoisted our ailing senior dog into his arms, while encouraging our younger beagle to follow. The three of them emerged from the open door moments later, a rechargeable lantern swinging from Adam’s full fist as he carried one dog down the stairs and the other sloped along at their heels. Behind their backs, the tree continued to splinter and groan.
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