Near Death Experiences, Misplaced Prayers and Skip-Bo

I thought it was a brilliant idea of mine to commute from Waterville to Ann Arbor. Free room and board is a hard offer for an impoverished student to pass up. So I've been testing the concept this summer when I go up to Special Collections twice a week. Theoretically, the drive is only an hour. In practice, there is usually an accident or roadwork. But annoyance turned to fear on Wednesday as I was driving home.

There was a torrential downpour that morning on my northbound commute (don't I sound responsible and important?). As I sat by the window on the seventh floor, the city looked like England in the early industrial age. The damp old trees, the Gothic architecture of the law school, and the occasional smoke stack from the medical and science buildings were shrouded in humid vapor.

The rain, however, did not start again until I started for home (sans my umbrella, naturally). Suddenly, outside of Adrian, MI, the sky behind me became blackish-green. The storm caught up, and the rain poured down, mixed with hail; the wind flattened the grass and blew branches across the road, and on my right side was the opaque blackness. The radio broadcast a doppler alert that there was a touchdown in Adrian and began to bleep (I never understood that--bleeping isn't going to help anyone in the middle of a tornado).

I did not feel at ALL like I was Dorothy going to Oz. The people around me began to slow down. I considered my options (well, that sounds deceptively logical). A) I could get off at the next exit and hide in the gas station. Somehow parking under a bunch of potential scrap metal didn't seem like the best idea. B) I could park and get in a ditch. But then I'd get all wet and my car might get ruined. C) I could try to outrun the storm. The paucity of other options combined with my natural instinct to flee made this the winner.

So I gunned it, and started hydroplaning at 80 mph past the morons going 35. I found myself whimpering "Mother!", and then realized that invoking an actual Deity might be more useful.

Thanks to the divine intervention of God and/or mother, I arrived home safely. Almost immediately the city alarm went off, and we made Grandma leave her embroidery and come down to the basement. Well, Mother and Grandma went to the basement. I went and spent five minutes trying to catch the cat. Our power went off (to be restored by 1:33 am, according to the automated answering service at the electrical company. Isn't it odd they can be so precise?), we did not get to see a tornado, and Mother's office flooded.

Definitely not as exciting as all the hurricanes I'm missing in Puerto Rico (taking horses and chickens in the house was such a delightful upset of natural order), but still a break from the same ol' same ol'.

Despite the power's being off, Grandpa and Grandma insisted on playing Skip-Bo. I adore having my grandparents downstairs, but the Skip-Bo obsession I do not understand. They've played every night for the past 10 years, and Grandma keeps the scores in her diary. Now, I don't know if you've ever played Skip-Bo, but let's just say that playing CandyLand or shooting craps takes more mental power and strategy. I think this is definitely what is called an addiction.