After the storm

 

I remember a handful of winters growing up in the Pacific Northwest, when the rain just wouldn't stop.

The rivers would swell, and my dad would be on the phone with his cousins upstream from us, getting reports on how high the water had risen up there and speculating about when the river behind our house might overtake its banks.

Drops continued to pelt the roof over my bedroom as I would gaze out my window at the backyard, where wide pools were forming in the low spots around the apple trees.

 

The creek at the edge of our property would rise thick and muddy with its chocolatey currents racing wildly just beyond our garden.

In the summer that water was clear and lazy and it lay so shallow in its bed that I had to hang onto vines to lower myself down close enough to squish cool mud between my toes.

But in the winter, when it rained a lot, the water raged.

As soon as the creek and it's mother river on the other side of our property became visible to us, it was time to worry. It was time to flee.

 

A few times, we did flee. We stored a few household items upstairs, lifted furniture onto wood blocks and loaded our cars with overnight bags and our pets.

We would traverse the handful of miles to my grandparents' home on a nearby hilltop, nervously fording moving water that had overtaken the road.

Once we got to the top there was nothing to do but wait, and listen while it rained.

 

Hours later, when the rain stopped and the rivers receded, we would venture back down into the valley to survey our home.

We would discover a mess of mud and debris in the yard and some flooding in our rec room, which sat lower than the rest of the house.

For the most part everything would be OK, except for the one time when it wasn't.

 

This weekend my parents held their annual mud-muckers' picnic to mark almost four years of life after a catastrophic winter flood overtook their home in 2007.

The picnic commemorates not only the storm, but the outpouring of help and hard work from friends and loved ones that followed. They all have so much to be proud of as a community.

I didn't get to attend the picnic, and I wasn't there to help in the aftermath four years ago either.

Life and mothering commitments kept me on the East Coast then, and they did again this weekend.



While we rode out our own storm here last night, the wind and the torrents of rain kept me awake well into the night.

The electricity flickered and twigs pelted our roof.

Nick and the kids slept soundly, but I couldn't help but think about the uncertainty of storms.

Sometimes they come and go, leaving nothing but tree debris and mud puddles.

Other times they leave a mess and emotional hardships that will be remembered for a lifetime. You just don't know until after the storm passes.

 

Today, I woke to light skies and a breeze with a leafy mess in the backyard.

For that I'm so thankful.