My Dad just called. He got through to my Uncle Jim in Zavalla Texas, near the Louisiana state line. We hadn’t been able to reach him, my aunt, and the people with them, since Rita hit. They’re all fine. The eye of the hurricane passed just a few miles away, and they got 90 mph winds, but his little steel-frame house held up. And he still has his bass boats and his pontoon boat. (He’s a retired farmer, and lives on Sam Rayburn Lake.) A big tree blew down on his property, but the ones close enough to fall on the place held up. Which is what I was most worried about.
I tell you what, it’s 100 degrees there at eight at night, he says, and their air conditioning is out. They had to go 90 miles to find the nearest gas. But I’m glad he got the phone line fixed, so we know they’re alright. God knows these storms have caused too much damage to too many families. No need to go stomping on mine.
Thanks, God.
Metaphor 