How to Sleep thru Anything
Atlanta, GA
A few years ago, when I was about 13, my parents took my brother and me to Disney World. I don’t remember anything about the Magic Kingdom, but I do recall the hotel.
We had adjacent rooms…my parents in one, Brett and me in the other…with a door connecting the two. Each featured a large window looking onto a balcony walkway from which the rooms were accessible.
One night, I opted to stay at the hotel while the three of them went to dinner. I’m sure the last thing my mother said before they left was something along the lines of: “lock the door, and don’t let anyone in.” Being a respectful, obedient son, I did as I was told.
With a vengeance.
When they returned a few hours later, my family found the door locked…but the curtains open. Thru the window they saw that the lights and the TV were still on, but that the boy had nodded off.
They assumed he was asleep…until they knocked on the door, banged on the window, and yelled his name thru the pane. He didn’t budge. They tried the door connecting from my parents’ room, but it was locked from my side.
From the front desk of the hotel, Jerry called my room. My mother could hear it ringing from outside the room. But her elder son remained sedate in his slumber, his ear within two feet of the phone.
My mother grew anxious. Perhaps this kid was comatose?
Or dead.
Becoming more concerned, she, Jerry, and Brett continued shouting my name at the window…like floor traders in an exchange pit…no doubt waking everyone in Orlando aside from one the person they intended to rouse. Had Christ Himself been with them, He would’ve tried revival by a laying on of hands, but then thrown them up in frustration…and moved on to Lazarus.
For whatever reason, another room key couldn’t be found. But a locksmith could. From hotel maintenance, the savior came. Like a sommelier to a Baptist wedding, his mere appearance brought relief, and ameliorated the mood. He proceeded to loosen the lock, periodically shooting glances of astonished irritation at the inert kid who was causing this problem.
Finally…the bolt yielded, and the door opened. Like federal agents to a drug den, my family burst in. I probably woke up when they turned off the TV. Turning it on certainly wouldn’t have done it. To this day, loud noise and bright lights don’t always wake me. Nor do barking dogs, blaring radios, or passing trains. Had I been Major Anderson, I would’ve slept thru Ft Sumter.
My wife has long known that mere sound won’t revive her dormant husband. As a new mother, she became painfully aware that a screaming infant didn’t either (but that a vigorous shake, swift kick, or stiff elbow would).
This week, she learned that, to her husband, even a tornado siren serves more as a lullaby than an alarm. She was also reminded that her younger son is even more insensate than his father.
In his nocturnal unconsciousness, David is a block off the ole’ chip. The apple fell up against the tree, pulled a hat over its eyes, and dozed off. A violent explosion would fail to wake him up.
My grandfather used to rouse me by pressing a gallon of cold milk to my bare back. I could dump a bucket of ice water on David, and at best it might cause him to roll over and hit the snooze button.
At about two-thirty Tuesday morning, my wife tried to wake me. After a couple attempts, she raised the volume of her voice, and I rose with a start. Tornadoes were in the area, and the sirens were squealing. We needed to move immediately to the basement.
Rita went quickly to David’s room, turned on the light, and told him to get up.
Nothing.
She tried again….No response.
After a third, more emphatic attempt, he rustled. His mother insisted he get out of bed.
“Why?”
“Because there are tornadoes in the area. We need to go to the basement.”
David remained in repose. Rita became more adamant.
“You need to get up. Now! Don’t you hear the sirens?”
His eyes opened slightly, squinting against the overhead light, like Punxsutawney Phil about to postpone spring.
His mother’s words finally seemed to register, and a sense of urgency to take hold.
David looked around briefly, thought for a moment, and then responded.
“Oh…”
And, with that, his head fell back to the pillow.
Rita must’ve felt like she was at a Mitt Romney rally. These people were in a stupor. Nothing could energize them. But, at long last, she rousted us both, and prodded us to the basement.
It was the right move. For an hour or so, the wind howled, trees bent, and rain teemed. Then, things subsided. Rita again woke her husband and her son, and told us the worst had passed. We returned to our rooms, and resumed our sleep.
The next morning, we saw the news. Before these storms came our way, they had blown thru Birmingham. We were luckier than we knew. Across significant swaths of Alabama’s largest city, roofs were removed, homes leveled, and neighborhoods destroyed.
Survivors gave harrowing accounts of hiding in their basement as their house fell above or on them. Many were trapped, awaiting rescue by harried recovery teams. Had the twisters not shifted north as they came into Georgia, we might’ve been seeking retrieval from similar rubble.
God, said Bismarck, looks after fools, drunkards, and the United States of America. My wife has her hands full just looking after us. As the storms passed, we knew her instincts were correct, even if the scenario she feared failed to materialize. After all, the quality of a decision isn’t a function of its outcome.
Fortunately, we were all fine, and relieved to still have our house.
Until the next evening.
The greatest risks usually come not from without, but from within. As dusk descended, I was in the office finishing some work, David suddenly yelled up from the bottom of the stairs.
“Dad! Come down here!”
“Why?”
“The toilet is overflowing!”
I ran downstairs, and into the bathroom. David had closed the valve, but water continued pouring from the commode, through the floor tiles…and into the basement below.
No one had been in the bathroom, so the gush had no obvious impetus. Within a few minutes, the flood subsided. I sopped up the water, dried the floor, and called the plumber. He arrived the next morning.
I introduced him to the offending toilet. Usually, when showing a repairman a problem, the defective device decides to work just fine. Not this time. It continued to act up. The bowl filled as it had the previous night, and still didn’t flush.
I then brought the plumber upstairs so he could hear strange sounds that’d begun gurgling from the shower drain. He fiddled with the toilet, sinks, and shower in the master bath. Then, we returned downstairs…and found the first toilet overflowing like Vesuvius.
We confirmed that the main line was clogged. Down went the tarp, out came the toilet, and thru the floor flange went almost a hundred feet of industrial grade plumbing snake. After a few hours and considerable effort, the plumber cleared the path, and restored to order the gastrointestinal system of our aging house.
Our basement has become all too accustomed to unwelcome water (e.g., on this occasion a couple years ago, or this one last year). But this incursion impacted only the unfinished, uncarpeted section, and caused no significant damage. I cleaned up the mess, threw a few things away, and for the second time in as many days, was relieved things hadn’t been worse.
That night, while Rita worked and David studied, I took advantage of a quiet evening of relative peace. I settled comfortably by the fire, pulled a book from the shelf, read about a page and a half…
…and fell fast asleep.
JD
