Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
For South Carolinians, the month of June is a mixed blessing. Our weather is fabulous and the beach beckons, but we’re always one burp of La Niña away from Arlene, Harvey, Ophelia and Vince—just a few of the potential stars on this year’s hurricane list.
Every June 1, Honey reminds me not to communicate any special requests involving named storms to a higher power. He still holds me personally responsible for the 75-foot tree that took out half our house during Hurricane Floyd in 1999. Yes, it was entirely my fault.
Just to be clear: I did not drop down on my knees and pray for a tree attack. I merely hinted that if—just if—we were due to be smashed by any falling object, it would be great if the object could land on the right side of the house. That’s where Honey needed an incentive to enclose the carport and finish the attic, an idea he’d been toying with since our kids, who voted in the last election, were plus signs on my pregnancy test.
As Floyd gasped his last gust, Honey wiped the sweat off his brow and announced that we’d dodged another bullet. Two seconds later, there was an odd, muffled rumble as the world’s largest pine tree came crashing through our roof, attic and carport, where our new SUV broke its fall.
In another home, a 75-foot tree making an entrance through the roof might have been thunderously loud. But our attic was properly cushioned for emergency landings by several metric tons of vintage craft supplies I’d been hoarding.
The way I see it, nature was kind. In a matter of seconds, Floyd sorted my stuff, gutted our attic, revived Honey’s carpentry skills and landscaped the yard so we could finally stop wondering when that stupid tree would fall on our house. But Honey summed it up differently: “You did this!”
Nonsense. Guys will never admit it in presence of estrogen, but they can’t wait for hurricane season. It’s the only time of year they can run around the neighborhood revving their chainsaws without getting arrested or cast in a Texas massacre movie.
Unfortunately, there are no laws to keep over-zealous husbands with motorized weapons off steep, wet roofs, especially when there are tree trunks waiting to be lassoed, winched and diced.
I begged him not to go up there. My only request (besides a finished garage and new master suite to replace the attic) was to hire professional tree removers—men with advanced chopping degrees who wear hardhats and steel-toed boots. But the intoxicating scent of chainsaw oil and thrill of flaunting a machine that could instantly separate him from his extremities was more than Honey could bear. New chest hair was already creeping over his shoulders and marching down his back. Before you could say, “Does our insurance policy cover dismemberment?” he was up on the roof with one flip-flopped foot on the tree, beating his chest like Tarzan.
Eventually, he came back down still in one piece, so I can’t complain. Besides, he pledged to finish the house if I would just stop stocking craft stuff in the attic. Of course, I agreed. It’s much safer in our new master suite.
Jan A. Igoe is a humorist from Horry County who trusts her husband with a chainsaw at ground level, but keeps an arborist on retainer through October, in case of Harvey.