Why is it so humid in here, and why was the door frozen shut?
After ramming my shoulder repeatedly into the aforementioned front door that was disturbingly hard to open, I was greeted with the sound of rushing water and an impressive rush of steam and humidity.
Following the wave of moist air that condensed on my face was the gut-wrenching, heart-stopping realization that something had gone horribly wrong in my house. The entryway was covered in a thick layer of ice, pieces of the ceiling were scattered across the floor, and the blades of the ceiling fan in the living room were wilted like a sad, sad flower.
Each subsequent step across the carpeted floor sounded like two wet sponges slapping against one another in a soggy embrace.
It's unexpected to say the least, and it isn't until you find yourself wading through your own home that you start to try and execute some sort of plan.
Have you ever thought about how to shut off the water in your home? The gas lines? Ever wonder why the furnace was running full tilt while the thermostat had shorted out from all of the water dripping down the walls?
If your house is ever underwater, you will.
And that's just the first 30 seconds of confronting the madness. Once you've compartmentalized the steps you need to take in order to stop things from progressing further than they have, you then start to take stock of the full damage.
For example.
If the ceiling of the first floor is now scattered across the ground, then how stable is the floor upstairs? Are the stairs safe to use? Is any of the furniture salvageable anymore? The kitchen table is laminated so it should be safe, right? Did I even like that table in the first place?
And why, out of everything else that was destroyed, did that damn potted succulent plant come back to life.
Thankfully most of the damage was to the property and not any important belongings as I had moved out of that house prior. I was visiting to retrieve some mail and to pick up my hockey stick when I discovered the mess.
We didn't let the pipes freeze over, even in the midst of the subzero winter Minnesota suffered through. The heat was left on, even without occupants in the house.
But a faulty valve in the upstairs bathroom spelled doom for an uninhabited dwelling.
In the end I found myself more grateful than anything that there were very few things of value left behind, but there exists a profound disappointment in realizing that the house I grew up in would become a mere recreation of what it was.
