An Equal Division of Responsibilities

Two nights ago, poor Charles came to a frightening conclusion: Our lives are in his, and only his, hands.

As you are more than aware, we live in the Midwest, where lovely and sometimes violent thunderstorms roll through. We all know the sound of the tornado siren. We have a place to escape to in case that siren goes off. For some it is a storm cellar, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz had. Others have a corner of the basement or under the stairs. We are lucky to have a concrete room, that seems to have been poured as an afterthought to the foundation, but damn safe, stocked with food, water, blankets, some toys, radio and, coincidentally, the wine, as it is also cool and perfect for a wine cellar and pantry. The house may be smashed but the wine and cans of soup will be safe. I did take the precaution of having a cork screw down there. I am nothing if not prepared. We would have to sacrifice something, though, as there are no glasses, only little plastic cups.

Unfortunately, to hear the tornado siren, one must hear the siren. If one is sleeping so soundly that one is not only snoring loudly enough to nearly drown out the storm but also one does not so much as move a toe when the storm crashes all around with barely a pause between flashes of lightning, the wind howling and even Emma looking worried, well, one can not be counted on in a disaster. (We have been blessed with dogs that don't freak at all with storms, just becoming a bit, well, concerned, if things get really bad.)

Charles has just formally decided that, while I am responsible for saving us in case of grave injury or illness, he is the sole bearer of responsibility for making sure we are not crushed in our beds or taken off to see The Wizard.

With age comes responsibility.

Maybe we should next time find a pooch that freaks during storms, thus insuring that both of us can sleep like the dead without ending up dead.