It's a common question out here on the plains after a storm. Sometimes there's rotation, but not a funnel cloud at which you can point your finger. There's always damage. My question is, was it straight line winds or tornadic winds that caused my Carpathian Walnut to attack my neighbor's house?
It started around 11:30 pm. I actually woke up to the thunderstorm. Usually, I am woken up by my yellow lab, who no matter what M and I do, is terrified of thunder. Without fail, he will wake one of us by the old wet-panting-dog-nose-in-the-ear trick. But, storms don't wake me. I slept through a tornado in a tent out in Garden City once.
So, having that fact established, to find myself waking up to a storm, it had to be an impressively powerful storm. I rolled over, and tried to determine if the pounding was stinging rain or hail.
M appeared in the bedroom door. "There's a tornado warning."
"What? In town?"
"Yep."
So, I figured that was at least worth tuning in to the local news. When I got to the family room, the weather map on the TV glowed red and purple as the weatherman fussed about the severity of the storm.
When you need crucial information, Murphy's Law will apply and the electricity will fail. The more you need that info, the more spectacular the power outage. In this case, the transformer a block away exploded and set the power pole on fire in the midst of an inch per hour rainfall.
Great. Now, we were aware of several "areas of strong rotation" and we didn't know where those were. For those of you who don't live in tornado alley, that's the politically correct way to saying, "Yep. Radar shows it's definitely spinning, but we have no idea if there's a funnel on the ground or not. 'Cause it's dark and it's raining."
I flipped on our little NOAA weather radio. All it says, of course, is that there is a severe storm and a tornado warning, oh, and floods too. It doesn't say for example, that the areas of rotation are in Highland Park, Washburn area, downtown, or Tecumseh. So, I don't know if it's safe to go back to bed or not.
Ah, well. I looked down at two dogs with impossibly sad brown eyes and tails wagging nervously. "Suppose we should play it safe."
If you don't have a basement, like we don't, there are still a couple of options.
1. Our neighbor across the street has a proper tornado shelter in his backyard and we have permission to use it. This is useful before the storm grows too dangerous to cross the street. Especially with two big dogs to drag along; one of whom is already terrified, and they're both howling at the warning sirens.
2. Hide in your bathtub and pull a mattress over your heads.
We half did that. Our bathroom has no windows (good thing in storms), but it's also a 4x4 foot box (excluding the built-in-the-wall bathtub). There's no way a queen mattress is going to fit in there. The mattress is literally larger than the room.
So, I'm sitting in the bathtub with a labrador retriever who hates baths. M and the other lab sat outside the tub. I really don't get labs. Show them a creek or a mud puddle and they'll splash all day long. Show them a hose or a bathtub and they'll bark and buck like they're going to melt on contact.
The little weather radio squawked away like a parrot. Yes, a parrot because it just repeats the same information over and over without any detail. In a couple of minutes, the tornado warning expired.
I poked my head out of the front door and looked around. "Huh. Didn't hear that happen."
The winds had wrenched one of the two trunks of our Carpathian Walnut tree. A three foot bright scar clashed with the darkness around it. The trunk and tree top were resting at an awkward angle against our next door neighbors' house.
Damn.
Next morning:
Our neighbors were cool with the damage, and it wasn't leaking or anything. They hadn't heard it either.
However, apparent minimal damage aside, they still had half of a tree on their house.
What a fine time for us to find out that our chainsaw is busted.
I grabbed the little handsaw from the wall and set to work at the break in the tree. Part of the trunk was still attached to the rest of the tree. At least nature had split the work with me too. The trunk was already broken in half.
M put his hands on his hips as he surveyed the work before us. "Deb, that's not going to work."
I rolled my eyes. "Well, how did people do it for millennia before chainsaws?."
"Axes."
Ooh. He did have a point. The first tool known to humankind was a stone ax. And, I really don't get to use my flintknapping technique too often these days anyway. Fact: obsidian is sharper than steel surgical tools and leaves less of a scar. Also fact: it dulls very quickly, and breaks easily when it's dulled.
Then again, I did already have a metal saw in my hand. Metal did replace stone as a medium for tools for a reason.
I set to work. I sawed and sawed, and kept sawing. Even I thought it was mind-numbing.
Meanwhile, M trimmed away on the smaller branches with the giant clippers. He cleared out most of the top of the tree while I kept sawing away at the trunk.
Over a hour and one ice-packed wrist later, he admitted that I was right.
Thankfully, the broken tree had only managed to knock off some of their guttering and the angle of the window a/c unit. Plus, we have firewood for next winter.
We came out of this storm very fortunately again. Many others in this town weren't so lucky with their houses. However, everyone is fortunate that it was only property damage this time.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Graceful Spider
I saw a brown recluse spider crawling across my dashboard while I drove down the two lane road. Of course, this had to be on a narrow road with a high speed limit. Life is far too dramatic for me to be able to pull over and shoo the spider out.
I tilted and spun the wheel to navigate the road; and climbed hills and rapidly dropped down from them. The spider casually ambulated along in the sunlight.
That spider casually ambulated right down inside the air vent.
As I gripped the wheel, my imagination started to grip me. What if popped back out on myself or a passenger when I wasn’t expecting? What if it found its way through the maze and came out a different vent?
What if the spider had babies?
So, I turned the defroster on full blast. My thought was that the air would force the spider out; or at the very least, prevent it from going further toward the engine.
How right I was.
In fact, I was so right, that the rushing air cannoned the spider out of the vent into the air, exactly over center of the steering wheel and right into my lap.
Ten point perfect trajectory and landing.
Of course, now I had a poisonous spider in my lap with only a thin layer of denim between my skin and its fangs.
Memories of my childhood decided to emerge. The blindingly white lab coat of the doctor bubbled up. I was much smaller then, when the doctor told me that I was probably going to lose my thumb because of a spider bite.
At most, I lost my thumbnail. And that’s because when I noticed that it was starting to come loose, I grabbed a pair of pliers and finished the job. (Yes, that is a true story too.)
Today, I understand why people do that as a torture technique. I wouldn’t recommend it, even at a party. The nail never did grow back the same as the others either, and it’s still different to this day.
I was told that I was going to lose that thumb to a spider bite. So, what could that same species of spider do to my leg then?
I felt much smaller than the spider in my lap.
At this point, I decided to take my chances and pull over.
Gently, I wiped the spider out of my lap with an old fast food receipt. I shook the paper, and it glided down to the pavement. After all, it’s not its fault that it’s a poisonous creature. Besides, not being gentle at this juncture may have been bite inducing.
So, with a job well done, myself and the spider both unharmed, I closed the door and drove off.
I think I may have run over it.
I tilted and spun the wheel to navigate the road; and climbed hills and rapidly dropped down from them. The spider casually ambulated along in the sunlight.
That spider casually ambulated right down inside the air vent.
As I gripped the wheel, my imagination started to grip me. What if popped back out on myself or a passenger when I wasn’t expecting? What if it found its way through the maze and came out a different vent?
What if the spider had babies?
So, I turned the defroster on full blast. My thought was that the air would force the spider out; or at the very least, prevent it from going further toward the engine.
How right I was.
In fact, I was so right, that the rushing air cannoned the spider out of the vent into the air, exactly over center of the steering wheel and right into my lap.
Ten point perfect trajectory and landing.
Of course, now I had a poisonous spider in my lap with only a thin layer of denim between my skin and its fangs.
Memories of my childhood decided to emerge. The blindingly white lab coat of the doctor bubbled up. I was much smaller then, when the doctor told me that I was probably going to lose my thumb because of a spider bite.
At most, I lost my thumbnail. And that’s because when I noticed that it was starting to come loose, I grabbed a pair of pliers and finished the job. (Yes, that is a true story too.)
Today, I understand why people do that as a torture technique. I wouldn’t recommend it, even at a party. The nail never did grow back the same as the others either, and it’s still different to this day.
I was told that I was going to lose that thumb to a spider bite. So, what could that same species of spider do to my leg then?
I felt much smaller than the spider in my lap.
At this point, I decided to take my chances and pull over.
Gently, I wiped the spider out of my lap with an old fast food receipt. I shook the paper, and it glided down to the pavement. After all, it’s not its fault that it’s a poisonous creature. Besides, not being gentle at this juncture may have been bite inducing.
So, with a job well done, myself and the spider both unharmed, I closed the door and drove off.
I think I may have run over it.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Dalton Reed now = D. Dalton
My name isn’t Dalton Reed, it’s Deborah Dalton.
I hid behind that fake name for a couple of bad reasons. One, the main character’s name is so close to my own. Two, it’s the internet and I didn’t want to spill my identity all over it. Okay, maybe those are actually justifiable, but I didn’t come up with them until after I’d already chosen a pen name.
The real reason was that I was afraid. Of what? Everything? Nothing? My own shadow? Criticism could bounce off a fake name. No one would know it was me. No one could recognize me (and who recognizes authors anyway?).
As mentioned above, one the reasons I stuck with my sobriquet was that I choose a name so close to my own for the hero. That’s technically bad form. Originally, she bore the appellation Dylan. However, I was still strolling through the ‘D’ section of a baby name’s website (which earned me some awkward questions from friends) and came across Derora. Angels sang, the heavens parted and I’m pretty sure that pond in my parents’ back yard split to allow some squirrels passage to escape from the neighbor’s dog. “That’s it!”
Mental brakes screeched. I couldn’t use a name so close to my own. So, I ignored it. And I kept ignoring it. I kept ignoring it so much that it was all I could think about. I emailed some friends asking which was better, Dylan or Derora? I bet you can guess how they replied.
The other main reason for adopting a pen name is that I didn’t want people to know it was me. I didn’t want to be me. Not just in writing, either. I gave up on soccer, fencing, Tae Kwon Do and running. I let myself get addicted to sugar. I’m at a dead end job far below my college degree. Why? It was the easiest path. I like the people here; but I’ve always voluntarily passed up for a higher grade position. The thought of it makes my brain feel green. You know it’s an ominous indication when you’re thinking in colors.
That’s what I’ve been doing. Following the easiest path. Water follows the easiest path, and water always winds up on a downhill slope.
I’ve learned from my characters. They’re not stupid like me. Der is honest to herself. She knows what she wants to do, and doesn’t let the odds deter her. She knows there are catastrophes in the life she’s chosen, but she doesn’t hesitate anyway.
I was eight years old when I realized that all I wanted to do was write. I haven’t found any other career that I’ve really liked. Or maybe it’s because I’m too interested in everything, and wanted to try a myriad of careers. Nothing stuck.
I wrote the story that eventually morphed into Crown of the Realm when I was eight. In its most basic form, it was the same story, although with a completely different cast of characters and obstacles. The sword has always remained the same though.
I grew up telling myself that I couldn’t make a living as an author. Few people can. Well, now, I’m tired of working at a job I loathe and I’m too exhausted to hate myself anymore. I’m riding my bicycle to work, going to the gym over lunch and eating grapes instead of cookies at home.
I actually have my dog, Saxon, to thank for that. He ate all my cookies. He shouldn’t have been able to get them. Reality rarely deters this animal. Somehow, he managed to sneak them out from behind the countertop appliances, unwrap them and then immediately dispose of the evidence to his crime.
Whenever I imagine this, Grieg's In the Hall of the Mountain King plays in my head.
That night, he showed me that I could make it through one full day without any sugary trash. So, the next day, I told myself one day. Today, I’m telling myself one day. It gets easier every day, so maybe downhill isn’t always bad after all.
I can learn from the dog too. Not in the binge eating way, of course, but in the fact that he knows what he is. He’s a dog and he loves to run. To him, it’s not a chore. Running is an expression of freedom; or maybe he thinks he really can knock that bird down from the sky. Running didn’t used to be a chore for me either. I can rediscover that. Sometimes, I think that writing is a chore too, when really, it’s my expression of freedom.
These days, I want to be me. That means being a writer and using my real name.
Please note that there will be a long transition between switching names because I can’t afford to print new editions of the novels with my real name at the moment. I’d also like to correct any grammatical errors, accidental misspellings, etc that myself and Mr. Szott have missed. Feel free to point these out to me. I can’t afford line editors, so I need all the help available. I really have to thank you – for reading this post, and just reading my works in general. That means the world to me.
Honestly,
Deborah Dalton
I hid behind that fake name for a couple of bad reasons. One, the main character’s name is so close to my own. Two, it’s the internet and I didn’t want to spill my identity all over it. Okay, maybe those are actually justifiable, but I didn’t come up with them until after I’d already chosen a pen name.
The real reason was that I was afraid. Of what? Everything? Nothing? My own shadow? Criticism could bounce off a fake name. No one would know it was me. No one could recognize me (and who recognizes authors anyway?).
As mentioned above, one the reasons I stuck with my sobriquet was that I choose a name so close to my own for the hero. That’s technically bad form. Originally, she bore the appellation Dylan. However, I was still strolling through the ‘D’ section of a baby name’s website (which earned me some awkward questions from friends) and came across Derora. Angels sang, the heavens parted and I’m pretty sure that pond in my parents’ back yard split to allow some squirrels passage to escape from the neighbor’s dog. “That’s it!”
Mental brakes screeched. I couldn’t use a name so close to my own. So, I ignored it. And I kept ignoring it. I kept ignoring it so much that it was all I could think about. I emailed some friends asking which was better, Dylan or Derora? I bet you can guess how they replied.
The other main reason for adopting a pen name is that I didn’t want people to know it was me. I didn’t want to be me. Not just in writing, either. I gave up on soccer, fencing, Tae Kwon Do and running. I let myself get addicted to sugar. I’m at a dead end job far below my college degree. Why? It was the easiest path. I like the people here; but I’ve always voluntarily passed up for a higher grade position. The thought of it makes my brain feel green. You know it’s an ominous indication when you’re thinking in colors.
That’s what I’ve been doing. Following the easiest path. Water follows the easiest path, and water always winds up on a downhill slope.
I’ve learned from my characters. They’re not stupid like me. Der is honest to herself. She knows what she wants to do, and doesn’t let the odds deter her. She knows there are catastrophes in the life she’s chosen, but she doesn’t hesitate anyway.
I was eight years old when I realized that all I wanted to do was write. I haven’t found any other career that I’ve really liked. Or maybe it’s because I’m too interested in everything, and wanted to try a myriad of careers. Nothing stuck.
I wrote the story that eventually morphed into Crown of the Realm when I was eight. In its most basic form, it was the same story, although with a completely different cast of characters and obstacles. The sword has always remained the same though.
I grew up telling myself that I couldn’t make a living as an author. Few people can. Well, now, I’m tired of working at a job I loathe and I’m too exhausted to hate myself anymore. I’m riding my bicycle to work, going to the gym over lunch and eating grapes instead of cookies at home.
I actually have my dog, Saxon, to thank for that. He ate all my cookies. He shouldn’t have been able to get them. Reality rarely deters this animal. Somehow, he managed to sneak them out from behind the countertop appliances, unwrap them and then immediately dispose of the evidence to his crime.
Whenever I imagine this, Grieg's In the Hall of the Mountain King plays in my head.
That night, he showed me that I could make it through one full day without any sugary trash. So, the next day, I told myself one day. Today, I’m telling myself one day. It gets easier every day, so maybe downhill isn’t always bad after all.
I can learn from the dog too. Not in the binge eating way, of course, but in the fact that he knows what he is. He’s a dog and he loves to run. To him, it’s not a chore. Running is an expression of freedom; or maybe he thinks he really can knock that bird down from the sky. Running didn’t used to be a chore for me either. I can rediscover that. Sometimes, I think that writing is a chore too, when really, it’s my expression of freedom.
These days, I want to be me. That means being a writer and using my real name.
Please note that there will be a long transition between switching names because I can’t afford to print new editions of the novels with my real name at the moment. I’d also like to correct any grammatical errors, accidental misspellings, etc that myself and Mr. Szott have missed. Feel free to point these out to me. I can’t afford line editors, so I need all the help available. I really have to thank you – for reading this post, and just reading my works in general. That means the world to me.
Honestly,
Deborah Dalton
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