A few weeks ago, my 13-year old told me about a giant crack that had opened in Africa.
“Some scientists think this is the beginning of the African continent splitting in two,” he said.
After doing a little Googling, I discovered he was right. According to reports, the crack (more of a crevice, really, or a chasm) spans nearly 35 miles, and it is about 55 feet deep and 66 feet wide. Scientists do, in fact, think this could be the beginning of a rift, and that over the next few million years, parts of the eastern edge of Africa could separate from the rest of the continent.
My son had mentioned this casually, as he got himself an after school snack. Like, you know, part of the earth may be splitting in two, and, hey, are we out of Goldfish?
Maybe this whole giant-crack-in-the-earth thing wouldn’t have struck me as quite so alarming if I had not just read about the Giant Attack of the Tumbleweeds that recently hit the town of Victorville in southern California.
In April, when wind gusts hit up to 50 mph, so many tumbleweeds blew in from the Mojave Desert that, according to NPR, “dozens of homes . . . were seemingly swallowed up by mounds of the dry brush.”
About 100 homes needed help after their entryways were blocked. By giant walls of tumbleweeds. People were trapped in their homes. By tumbleweeds.
But, no problem, right? I mean, we’re all fine. Nothing to see here kids. Nothing to worry about.
Except lava.
On May 3rd, lava started releasing from “vents” about 25 miles from the summit of Hawaii’s Kilauea volcano. These vents spread through neighborhoods, destroying homes and other structures. There is a chance that the volcano might blow soon. But the part of the story that really grabbed my attention was the use of the words “lava outbreak.” As in an outbreak of lava.
I don’t want to go full tinfoil-hat-talking-to-invisible-friends-on-the-secret-channel-on-my-transistor-radio here, but these things seem sorta, well, not great, right?
I feel, sometimes, when I hear the news lately, that I’m living in the early scenes of a disaster movie. Any minute, Tommy Lee Jones, or Dennis Quaid, or Jeff Goldblum, or Samuel L. Jackson, or Helen Hunt, or Pierce Brosnan, or John Cusack is going to come on stage and start looking at papers and computer screens and mumbling things like, “Just as I feared.”
And then we, the audience—the people buzz-sawing our way out of our tumbleweed-stricken homes—will be reminded that Tommy/Dennis/Jeff/Samuel/Helen/Pierce/John have tried to warn us all along.
I remember when Paul Thomas Anderson’s 1999 film Magnolia was released, and some audience members found the scene where the sky suddenly rains a plague of frogs too surreal, too random and unbelievable, too unsettling. It ruined an otherwise excellent movie, they claimed.
At this point, however, I’m not sure I would even be surprised to see “frog storm” make the news.
Hey, mom—did you hear about that frog tornado that hit Toledo? Oh, and do we have any juice?
So what’s a person to do?
I mean, I do a pretty job of recycling already. I even compost. Okay, my husband composts. But I’m the one who saves the eggshells and coffee grounds that he composts with. Sometimes. When I’m not in a hurry. But still, the lava.
And I’m a person of faith. I pray. But still, the tumbleweeds.
At some point, I feel I have no choice but to go into total-ostrich-head-in-the-sand mode. When the earth appears to start splitting in half, denial can be a wonderful thing. I think of the lyrics to an old Simon & Garfunkel song, “Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall”:
So I’ll continue to continue to pretend
My life will never end,
And Flowers Never Bend with the rainfall
I’ll just keep trying to do my part, I guess, and, as Curtis Mayfield told us in the 70s, “keep on keeping on.” I’ll pop some popcorn, plan my library-as-shelter-escape-route, and wait for frogs.