It was very wet in Norman Rockwell Land the Saturday of the first week of April. It had rained for days, off and on. Chilly, miserable lion weather that everybody wished would go out like the promised lamb. The ground was saturated and everything smelled, well, wet.

Then the wind whipped up and blew pretty steadily all day. It could be heard in the trees. Neighbors' lawn furniture was being retrieved from others' lawns all afternoon.

Around 3:00 pm, all hell broke loose on our block: creak, snap, dull thud, and the noise of sirens and utility emergency trucks. One of the 100-year-old trees that are the hallmark of Norman Rockwell Land had been uprooted and crashed through the side and roof of the house across the street from me. A small child had been sleeping in the bedroom where the tree came through, spraying bricks from the wall onto the bed. She was still sleeping peacefully and unharmed when her mother ran into the room. God takes care of infants and drunks, it is said.

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