The South swelters with mid-summer heat, with no port of refuge to be seen. Heading from the tree-shaded lanes of UGA and Athens, we found ourselves getting even more roasted as we drove through Hotlanta’s asphalt and concrete EZ-Bake Oven. The sun looked and cooked our black ragtop. Full-blast air conditioning seemed to do little to help.

At last, the sun slid behind towering thunderheads, providing welcome relief as we headed northward, toward our home on the hill. For awhile, all was still (as much as it can be with trucks and pickups and rich folk taking their fast cars out for a run on I-75 northbound). Magnificent bolts of lightening raced across the northern sky, lengthening out the dusk with their searing white flashes.

Then, suddenly, 30 miles southeast of our port of refuge, our home on the hill, it hit. One moment, it was a few light splatters on the windshield. A shift in the humidity and temperature caused the windshield to fog up slightly. As my fingers races to turn dials and press buttons to change the airflow, God began throwing garbage pails of water from the now black sky.

Thankful For Semi-Trucks With Blinking Tail Lights

There was no way to pull to the shoulder, no port of refuge from the storm. We couldn’t go around it. We couldn’t stop. Like Frodo the Hobbit, we had to go through. Suddenly, I could see the flashing red tail lights of a semi-truck. Here, I knew, was safety. I’d driven behind them in Tule fog in California’s Central Valley, and between Denver and Salt Lake City in November blizzards. Both of those had visibility of less than 30 feet. Here, I could see more than 100 feet, to the truck, so I knew I was safe.

Marnie was not as experienced. As I drove at a reasonable, safe speed, following the blinking tail lights, she sought her own port of refuge by burying her face in her lap. My hands stayed at “10 and 2,” and I never wavered, even when other cars passed me. I’d had dozens of cars similarly pass me before, heading down into Sacramento on the Donner Pass, and into Seattle on the Snoqualamie Pass. Many had ended up in the ditch or off the side of the road, headlights pointing like searchlights into the stormy night sky.

I was in no hurry.

The Last Miles Are Often The Toughest

At last, our exit appeared. A small voice whispered “Go to the next one! It’s better lit and straighter.” I ignored it, in a hurry to get home. As we exited, we could see … nothing. The dozens of street lights, stoplights, fast-food restaurants usually lighting up the intersection had been knocked out. No matter. The rain has slowed to a mere drizzle, so I headed home on the back road I knew so well, off of Old Alabama Highway.

Less than two blocks into our road home, I saw cars turning around and heading back toward me. Gazing down the road, I could see a giant flood flowing over the road. I sighed. The small voice — as it usually is — had been right. I turned around and got back onto the freeway, heading to the next exit.

There the lights were on, everything looked wet but familiar, and I could finally start breathing a little slower. Slowly driving down slick, wet roads, we at last turned on our yellow dirt road that headed toward our hill. I relaxed a little, but only then realized my 10 and 2 hands were almost cramping from gripping the steering wheel so tightly.

The Lighthouse And Port Of Refuge On The Hill Surprise

I drove through the hickory, oak and cedar trees, up the hill and down the dirt road that is now so familiar to me. Suddenly, through a gap in the trees, our home appeared on the hill. Its front porch and upper bedroom lights blazed with a brightness that only air cleaned by the rain can bring. As I slowed the car to look, huge bolts of lightening from the storm we’d just gone through flashed behind the house.

It was as if the house was saying “Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you. You are safe now, here.” I put the car in reverse and backed up a few feet, to where I could see our own lighthouse and port of refuge, lights blazing like a giant battleship. I gazed at it for a moment, relaxed completely, drove through one more pothole puddle, and parked.

Home again, home again, jiggidy jig.

Home Again: Our Port of Refuge in the Storm (haiku)

Torrential rainstorm,/
light’ning, flooded roads. We see/
our house, lit. Harbor.*

or

our house, lit. Refuge.
10:19 pm August 13, 2019