|
Scorpio story exchange :: 43 )
Miracle number four
During the mid eighties my family and I lived in a home near Niagara Falls, NY. It was a farmhouse dating back to the early seventeen hundreds having the name, Jacob Miller as the first to possess its deed. Its authority and warmth where eclipsed only by its enduring history as a familiar, two-story, four room structure that most certainly was a center of business for the vast Jacob Miller farm.
The home had undergone scores of changes through the years and brandished well the addition of a long covered porch that spanned the distance between two fully mature Maples. It had a sidewalk at each end that sloped graciously to the drive and a bed of manicured flowers. The front door of our home opened into a small foyer that boasted custody of an assuring slate floor that had been worn smooth with the last century’s passage of time. To the right was a large country kitchen with accommodating bay windows that paralleled the backside of the porch. Each winter the strong prevailing winds would form a snowdrift resembling a cresting wave the entire length of the porch. Occasionally, when not expecting visitors, I’d deliberately ignore my responsibility of shoveling the walk so that I could sit in the evening and enjoy the simple beauty of that snowdrift. Although the kitchen was large and held several arrangement possibilities, the windows over-looking the porch automatically reserved that space for the table and chairs that furnished evenings of Balderdash, Monopoly, Chess, or Checkers and watching that snowdrift grow.
Late one evening in the winter of 89, a slow moving storm front carrying freezing rain passed over Western New York. In it’s wake where downed power lines, treacherous roads, and homes with roofs straining to support tons of ice. The ice encased every thing within fifty miles including the elegant snowdrift that indolently curled its way down the entire length of the porch.
By morning the clouds had moved eastward leaving one of natures most satirically arcane phenomenon, the destructive force of ac scorpio-story ulated ice deceivingly veiled as a glistening fairyland. My son Brandon, three years old at the time was playing outside. He was crawling on his stomach up the frozen snowdrift and when he could crawl no further, his little hands would stretch for the top and let his arms finish the job. Grasping the crest, he’d pull himself up, smile with the delight of achievement, let go and slide back down halfway to the drive. This joyful activity continued for over an hour, the waves, the smiles, and the sliding back down.
My wife Nancy and I were sitting at the kitchen table watching Brandon through the window when all of a sudden without foundation a vision flashed across my eyes. It was a lucent and perspicuous prophecy that drilled its way into my mind. The image was of a huge tree-branch breaking under the weight of the ice and crashing down on my son. Without hesitation or thought I bolted out the door and dove the width of the porch sweeping Brandon into my arms as we slid away from the perceived danger. Before sliding to a stop I heard the sickening sound of branches crushing against them selves and as I looked back I couldn’t consider what I saw. Right there, right where Brandon had been playing was a giant tree-limb twenty feet long with a base of over eighteen inches in diameter. Its secondary branches the size of my arms where gnarled and twisted in all directions by the shattering force of frozen density fighting their natural sinewy strength.
By this time Nancy had reached the open door and stood silently while her eyes questioned the spectacle they had just witnessed. She innately understood the intolerance of time and delayed any word while her reservations comprehend factual judgment. What had just happened qualified as an undeniable miracle and I could sense that she wondered if I had just dropped in from another planet. The moments that followed whispered awe while we searched each others face for something meaningful to say. But there was nothing to be said, nothing that could rationally clarify my actions that undoubtedly had just saved our oldest son’s life.
At the time Brandon had only recently graduated from the ranks of toddler so he doesn’t remember that morning years ago. But in keeping with his sprit he probably only thought that dad had just come up with the coolest game ever as he slid along in the protection of my arms. My name is David Banks; I have two sons and one daughter, I’m a man that believes in angels.
 Saturday, December 03, 2005 at 04:54 |
Scorpio Short story True stoty index exchange
Email
Visit