Larry Brody: Live! From Paradise! #198 – “Ice Storm Part 1”

Somewhere in this pic is a house, but all we can see is ice.

THE USUAL NOTE FROM LB: From the summer of 2002 to the spring of 2010, Gwen the Beautiful and I were the proud and often exhausted owners of a beautiful Ozarks property we called Cloud Creek Ranch.

In many ways, the ranch was paradise. But it was a paradise with a price that started going up before we even knew it existed. Here’s another Monday musing about our adventure and the lessons we learned.

Oh, and if y’all detect any irony, please believe me when I say it comes straight from the universe and not your kindly Uncle Larry B.


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by Larry Brody

“Wow.”

That was my first reaction to the Big Bad Southern Ice Storm of ’09 while it was in full force.

And that’s still my reaction now that it’s all over.

What an amazing experience.

Beautiful.

Frightening.

Aggravating.

And certainly not dull.

The Ice Storm hit Paradise and environs about a month ago.

It began with a gentle drizzle that last for two days. Nothing to get het up about, so I ignored my worried neighbors’ advice to, “Get all the food your cupboards’ll hold, Larry B. But don’t buy anything that needs to be in the freezer or fridge.”

“‘Less you’ve got a back-up generator,” Lily the Librarian cautioned. “In which case you’d best make sure you’ve got enough gas to run it for at least a week.”

“It’s just a little rain,” I told Gwen the Beautiful. “I can’t for the life of me understand why everyone’s so freaked.”

On Day Three I found out.

We awoke to the sounds of silence as our electricity went off. Looked out the bedroom window and saw why:

We were in the middle of a vast, crystal forest. The temperature had plummeted during the night and the drizzle had frozen.

The structures on The Mountain—the storage shed, the barn, the Annex, the dog houses, all the fences—were encased in ice that gleamed in the bright sunlight that made the temperature appear much warmer than the number on our little weather station—29 degrees.

The woods were frozen as well. Many trees stood as straight and tall as ever. Most, however, showed the strain caused by the weight of the ice. Major branches bowed. Trunks leaned at odd angles. Treetops dangled 180 degrees downward.

And, through the closed windows, I could hear music. The tinkling of the ice as limbs swayed in the breeze.

The effect was sparkling.

Beautiful.

Magical.

I threw on two thick robes and a pair of boots and raced downstairs. There, I grabbed my camera from my desk. Rushed outside.

And snapped away at Fairyland.

Our Not-Quite-Son-in-Law, Jeremiah, joined me from where he’d been sleeping in the Annex. He was here without Youngest Daughter Amber, helping me fence in half an acre behind the main house so we could relocate Emmy the Bold, Decker the Giant Hearted, Belle the Wary, and Ditsy Dixie from the goat pen we’d been using as a dog yard for the past few years.

“Never saw anything like this before,” Jeremiah said.

“But you grew up in Alaska,” I said.

“Where in the winter it’s way too cold for precipitation to come down as anything but snow.” He looked around, said the only word that could even begin to do the sight justice. “Wow.”

We spent the next couple of hours merrily tramping around, taking pictures of ice-encased birdhouses, blades of grass, chicken netting, chainlink, even buds. The ground was slippery, but as time went on my footing became steadier. The ice was melting.

“I wonder if they’ve got the power back on,” I said as I snapped a shot of a translucent crystal curtain over the mouth of one of the little caves down by the Original Settlers’ Cabins.

“I doubt it,” said Jeremiah. “Look.”

He pointed to a place just beyond our back fence.

Where a power line lay.

“We’d better call that in. Get this taken care of soon,” I said.

Jeremiah started to reply. Stopped as—

CRACK.

It was the hanging top of a nearby tree, cracking off as the ice that kept it attached melted although the ice that encased it remained. Dead leaves brushed against branches collided with the bent trunk of a neighboring tree, everything hitting the ground with an explosive CRACKLE.

We felt ourselves sprayed with moisture. Backed away.

And heard another CRACK. WHOOSH. THUMP.

Another.

More.

Around us, the woods were caving in. Branches fell. Wide-trunked old hardwoods toppled. Ice sprayed.

Jeremiah reached out, turned me around so I was looking up the mountainside, toward the house that was too far to see.

“Um, Larry B? I think the photo op’s over.”

“You trying to tell me discretion’s the better part of valor?”

“What I’m trying to tell you is run for the clearing, dude. C’mon!”

Our feet hit the trail. We ran so fast I thought we were flying.

While, all around us:

CRACK. WHOOSH. THUMP.

And, within us, from our hearts and our brains:

“Wow.”

I’d call that one dang icy driveway, wouldn’t you?

MORE TO COME

Author: LB

A legendary figure in the television writing and production world with a career going back to the late ’60s, Larry Brody has written and produced hundreds of hours of American and worldwide television and is a consultant to production companies and networks in the U.S. and abroad . Shows written or produced by Brody have won several awards including - yes, it's true - Emmys, Writers Guild Awards, and the Humanitas Award.

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