My grandmother’s town, where my mom and I both spent much of our growing up, was more or less erased on Sunday to within about 250 feet of her house. Tornadoes will do that, and they will do things like this. (You’d think you’d have heard something about this from the news media, but the other news media’s mommies and grandmas live in Florida and Arizona so you’ve spent the last two days hearing about their petty little meteorological problems. I work in a thoroughly ass profession.) The grain bin in the picture — it was a bin once — was one of the ones my father built. Photo courtesy of my brother and sister-in-law.
You know, I hire on at this big newspaper-type thingy, and that just proves I’m an idiot — the events of the last few months prove that I’d have been better off staying in my happy Brooklyn home and blogging, as we are getting more powerful all the time. And I’d get home a lot earlier if I worked there, I’ll bet.
What I learned this weekend: If you’re on a sub and non-disaster strikes, you have time to be pithy. (I also learned that I need another set of bookshelves, but that’s only because the little bastards multiply when you leave them in moving boxes. I guess I learned that too come to think of it. And I learned that it’s easier to walk from Woodley Park to Georgetown than to try using mass transit. My, that’s a lot of learning for one weekend. If you excuse me, then, I’m going to the office on this sunny Sunday, where I’ll not learn anything at all.)