Fortunately, I do not have personal photos of the recent devastation by tornado that has ravaged parts of the United States this spring. I have seen plenty of images that are all too graphic. I'm sure you have too.
Having all one's possessions destroyed in a few moments would simplify the task of cleaning, downsizing or starting fresh, but the thought of being personally swept up by a tornado is more frightening to me than death, or taxes or even a death tax--or almost anything I can imagine! If I could even imagine man-made torture, perhaps that might be worse--pulling out my fingernails one by one, or being "drawn and quartered," for example. Torture is such a remote possibility in my community and country that it is literally inconceivable.
There are probably way worse ways to die than in a tornado. I just think tornadoes are scary.
It is possible to climb quickly to higher ground to avoid a tsunami, for example; but in the swirling violence of a tornado, people and all their pets and possession can be sucked up into that monster vortex in an instant, to be deposited, in pieces, miles away. I think a bomb would be preferable, because it would be quicker--if you are going to die anyway. Picking up the pieces, in one report from Joplin, Missouri, where over a hundred people perished recently, was likened to attempting to separate out the strawberries from a blended smoothie.
My mental images of the devastation this spring in the USA, or the earlier disaster in Japan, have been quickly moved into a basement file (or maybe a dump), in the back of my brain. The next news event that captures media (and my) attention, fully eclipses the previous week's events, becoming the new screen saver of the day in my limited cerebral cortex.
A royal marriage, with all its pomp and precision and parades of hats, a murder trial in Florida, or even tawdry twitter tweets, exposed all over the world, involving a member of Congress and his obsession with his member--distract me in a kind of mindless voyeurism. With a scandal involving the sexting of a body part of a man named Weiner, it doesn't get much crazier--be it the New York Post headlines, the late-night comedian's monologues, or on Twitter. We--I should say I--cannot help but smile just a little.
I obviously cannot include those offending images here either, so, no photos for this post!
I am always more thankful, for a few days at least, that it was not me in the news--(a natural disaster, that is, not a sexting scandal--there is not a chance on this earth that I would share a picture of my privates!)--until I get distracted by something else on my computer screen or in my life.
Sadly, in the case of the tornadoes, there is really nothing I can do to help. When we are retired and more mobile, perhaps I could volunteer for a few days of cleanup with a disaster relief organization.
In the case of the hot dog New York congressmen, frankly, I hope he quickly shrivels up and goes away. I do not want him or any part of him popping up as my brain screen saver any more. Pelosi's promise to sweep the House clean must have left a lot of dirt under the rug, or at least circling the drain in the gym shower.
There is no danger of a tsunami here in Michigan, but a tornado is possible. I have something that many who lost their lives in Joplin and other cities that have experienced the violent storms did not have--A BASEMENT! For all my bemoaning my basement and my inability to make much progress so far in cleaning and organizing, I am once again loving my basement. I have decided where I would hide down there if a tornado was headed this way. Without a basement, it's in the bathtub with a mattress pulled on top. We have that big tub now in which two people could actually fit, but I would head down to that old (built in the year I was born), spider-webby, cement block basement shower to take shelter. I could hang on to the plumbing pipes. I would most likely survive.
Yes, I do have a new appreciation for my basement, the presumptive focus for this year of living cleaner, billed as "blogging from my basement!"
It occurs to me that most Florida homes don't have basements, either. My daughter living in the Orlando area took refuge in an inner closet, with jugs of water handy, for hours--until Hurricane Charley (August, 2004) finally passed overhead a few years back, merely ripping a few shingles off the roof of her condo. The tree damage in the area was massive, however. I was there soon after. Another factor to consider when we evaluate retirement options.
So even if I don't make as much progress with sweeping my house clean as I had hoped this year, I will continue loving my basement, with all its clutter and spiders--and hereby commit to forever living in a house that has one (the husband thinks he wants a high-rise condo)--until I have to move to a "rest home" or assisted living facility, which will probably be equipped with a safe room. By the time my girls have to drag me kicking (feebly, perhaps) and screaming (I am a screamer) into some facility of "rest", I probably won't care much if a whirling black tornado comes roaring like a freight train through my house and "raptures" me up into the clouds to die. My soul might just make a faster exit to my ultimate destination.
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