On September 20, 2021, I was still trying to decide which artwork, representative of a visual “narrative,” I should submit for the latest Savannah Art Association airport exhibit when something occurred which would force the final decision for me. It started with a single drop of rain.
For only the second or third time this year, I congratulated myself, on the date noted, for having been wise enough to use my last government stimulus check to get repairs done on my 90-year-old roof. That was something I had not been able to do after surviving the butt-kickings delivered by: Hurricane Matthew in 2016, Hurricane Irma in 2017, Hurricane Michael in 2018, and Hurricane Dorian in 2019.
Rain had been pounding the tin going on two days straight. It sounded more like a herd of mustangs racing nonstop across an open plain than a typical southeastern Georgia late-summer downpour. I felt secure enough in my reinforced shelter to start watching a movie on Netflix. Then, I heard something I was certain did not come from the streaming comic relief. I hit the mute button.
Incredibly, the distinct horrible noise of a drop of water echoed just a few inches away from the flat screen sitting atop an antique display cabinet. It was painfully more than I wanted to believe as I slowly stood, examined the polished wood beside the TV, and yelled “No!” There forming on the wood was a tiny shiny pool of terror.
I looked up and discovered on the ceiling a short thin hairline fracture through which water was squeezing. The spot was one which had not leaked previously. My stimulus check, it appeared, had allowed me to invest in an illusion of safety without providing a true solution to the problem at hand. A glass bowl to catch the drip would have to do for the time being.
Contemporary award-winning American author of classically-styled works in history, poetry, creative nonfiction, speculative fiction, and journalism.