Storm claims several homes

Friday's extreme thunderstorm with its 80-mph winds spared my home. A neighbor wasn't so fortunate. Three uprooted 100-ft cottonwood trees hammered his property; one of them landed square on his house and the pickup truck in his driveway.

City crews swept in the next day and cleared much of the debris amid onlookers that came after media publicity turned my street into a twisted tourist attraction. (About half the city population was without electricity; the other half whose TVs still worked took turns driving by.)

It looks like only 1/4 of the house was destroyed; it is unknown whether it's repairable or if hidden structural damage has rendered the building beyond repair. The pickup truck looks as if a locomotive plowed into it.

My neighbor, R., is a good fellow who goes out of his way to help others and has kept his property well and provided assistance to others on the block (including myself) with our groundskeeping. Meanwhile, a nearby public nuisance and alleged "drug house" that collects graffiti and trash (the vehicular and human kind as well as what overfills the Dumpster) was untouched. The unfairness digs at me.

But the most important things were unscathed: R. and his beloved dog. Their survival puts a perspective on the whole disater.

Father's Day: In Memory of Dad

My father passed away this year following a losing battle with an antibiotic-resistant pneumonia. I literally heard him take his last breath when I was alone in his bedroom.

He had been in the hospital after an accidental fall and subsequent severe confusion that the doctors suspect was some kind of stress reaction, with symptoms like those included on this list from a CDC bulletin aimed at emergency workers. For unknown reasons, Dad's swallowing reflex disappeared, and despite attempts at special therapy, kept aspirating fluid into his lungs leading to the pneumonia.

After a fractured hip a few years back left my father (at least temporarily) unable to live on his own and take care of Mom (who had her own disabilities), both my parents spent the rest of their lives living in the in-law apartment in my brother's home. That meant dealing with a son and daughter-in-law who run a tight ship and pull no punches when it comes to criticism. (Brother: if you are reading this, if your inclination to speak harshly were inversely proportional to your material generosity and willingness to help those in need, you'd be the best damn brother anyone could hope to have.) Chronic criticism, even when given with good intentions, can form a black hole engulfing positive interactions and memories.

Mom passed away a year after the relocation and Dad lost his lifestyle piece by piece, including his driver's license. I think the fall triggered flashbacks of conflicts past and aggravated hopeless visions of the future.

Dad and I shared a lot in common: a love of animals (horses were to him what ferrets and skunks are to me), a talent for art and "handyman" work, a yen for motorhome travel, an eccentric sense of humor, a live-and-let-live philosophy. Why Dad instead of any of various people who have inflicted misery and/or death on others?

Dad, you were loved my many, and our memories of you will remain in our hearts. We miss you.