Rat-a-tat-pa-dat on Aluminum!

The weather promised 100% chance of rain for Friday (bad odds), and Savannah is a walking-around kind of place, so we decided to try for another night here at the River’s End Campground. The good news: we got to stay another night, the bad news we woke up to tornado warnings–this time with warning sirens.

They were long horn blasts, sometimes loud and sometimes receding with the winds that were picking up. We checked the computer and yep, we were in another tornado warning red box. We are about 16 miles east of Savannah, the storm cell in question tracked toward the northeast about 7 miles east of Savannah with a touchdown on Skidaway Island just to the south. Haven’t heard about any damage.

There are too many trees in the campground to really get a sense of cloud movement–we just watched heavy rain form a small lake where we’ll be hitching up the truck on Sunday. Occasional thunder preceded yet another looong horn blast and Bruce went out to check. Definitely a tornado warning! Most people planned to sit in their trucks if necessary. Better to be in a truck that can move than a vulnerable RV. Not much else we could do, with nowhere to run. We learned later that this is very unusual for Savannah–must be us. High drama!

Like most storms, it passed fairly quickly, but the rain continued all day and has started up again as I write this. After the storm, the sky turned a jaundiced yellow, the pines and palmettos nodded at one another discussing their close call, and we ventured out to hear the human campground buzz. The locals took it all in stride, the northerners were all a chatter. Sprock slept through the whole thing.

sleeping-in2.jpg

Maybe Savannah tomorrow!

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One Comment on “Rat-a-tat-pa-dat on Aluminum!”

  1. Diane Gallo Says:

    What you left behind in Otsego County … Flood Warnings …

    O the fury all night long. The wind and rain hitting the windows, finding the edges. The rabbit hunkered beside the bed. Inside the flannel nest, all sweet and safe. The train coming, roaring towards us from the distance. The geese screaming overhead, below, the ship takes on water, slowly. The ship is sound. But oh, the fury. Each time I get up in the night I watch to see if the headlights can still move forward across the one lane bridge. All night, they do. Each time, the rain is seven veils moving in seven directions. The wind is inconsolable. All night I pray everyone is safe. Once during the night, once only, the sirens call from the village. I dream my friend has had her feet amputated. At first I don’t know if she will recognize or acknowledge me but she does and we sit on the floor of the supermarket and grieve and grieve and grieve her loss. It is so unlike her to cry.

    In the morning, the world is white and stunned. The rabbit peaks at us around the corner of Joe’s office. Joe has dreamed he entertained Einstein and other physicists at his apartment on Morris Avenue in the Bronx. Assembling coffee, I see two … what? What are they? Size. Like beavers, only slender. Weasels? Too big. Oh. Slow smile. Otters. The river is so high, the animals are moving in.

    So. What’s new with you?


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