It had been a long wet winter in California. In Sunnyvale it rained for six months. There was not a square inch of dry land to be found anywhere. Citizens secured themselves to drain pipes while they slept in their goulashes, malls were drenched, their roofs leaking, and the local newspaper was delivered wet; at Safeway they turned off the sprinklers in the vegetable department. Every Saturday morning I kissed Imma lightly on the cheek, not wanting to appear too emotional, and went to the swimming pool. We swam in spite of the elements; lap after lap after lap; sleet or snow, rain or rain, the cold wind searing our backs. When the hail letup, we flipped over, to soak our cold and weary trapezes in the chilly water which was forty one degrees warmer than the air. Swimming on our backs, we watched the clouds rush by, driven by the screaming wind. The lighting towers swayed back and forth. The pigeons who usually watched us from the tops of the light fixtures were gone. The fact that even birds did not trust the anchor screws at the base of one of those towers was a sobering thought. But on we swam, welcoming the sound of thunder, knowing that it meant that lightning had struck elsewhere. Continue reading
Imma’s maternal instinct left her ridden with guilt over the idea that her offspring were left to fend for themselves with nothing more than a few magnetic cards in the all-inclusive resort where we left them two months earlier. So we packed the car full of goods and drove down to check on them. They were happily settled in and even invited us to meals in the cafeterias so we could see for ourselves that they had not degraded as far from what they had been used to at home as Imma imagined.
Just for giggles