Pictured: a gray-green sky past a distroyed railing, several wind damaged garden structures, and dozens of downed trees within and past the fence line and the text: The cloud never comes from the quarter of the horizon from which we watch for it. Elizabeth Gaskell.

I’d been expecting that Covid-19 would be the thing that waylaid our home and changed my horizon in 2020. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I had 15 minutes of warning before the derecho hit Cedar Rapids, Iowa on August 10, 2020, just enough time to call the dog-walker and let her know: bring the doggo home and go get hunkered down yourself.

I took this from my back deck as the winds were dying down. The branch showing in the foreground on the right of the picture came from the 40+-year-old ash tree, the trunk of which should have been blocking my view from that angle.

I still cringe when the winds start to howl, can still hear the crack of its rootball breaking, sharp and clear like a bat against the horsehide of a softball you didn’t expect to hit.

My roof was finally fixed in November. The deck repairs have to wait until the spring. Too many other people needed new roofs. There simply weren’t hands available

I can see all the way across the wooded area behind my house now, a green space defined by where Dry Creek flooded in 2008 on its 1000 year flood plain and a safety margin beyond where no one may build. I can see apartments I knew were there but were hidden by trees. My horizon has been expanded at the cost of the trees and I’m not comfortable with the view.

I’m learning to live with discomfort for the sake of expanding my horizons.