When Hurricane Irma was closing in on coastal Georgia, it never occurred to us that the Rondarosa, located over an hour’s drive north of Atlanta, would be vulnerable to its viciousness. Oh, but frail and vulnerable we proved to be. As weather forecasters put us under a tropical storm warning – the first in the history of Atlanta – I began to pray, beseeching God Almighty to spare the trees of the Rondarosa. An ice storm three years ago laid to waste so many trees that it looked like a tornado had proclaimed its mightiness. The high force winds, predicted to begin at 2 p.m., began calling at noon. Tink was on location, shooting, so I was left alone to fret and pray. I paced the floors. I wrung my hands. I cleaned the pantry, trying to distract myself. I walked the house, singing, “Jesus, Hold My Hand”, trying to sing louder than the horrifying winds. At 3 p.m., I heard a shuttering, thunderous blow.