Skylights

On Memorial Day we had thunderstorms that threw down bullets of hail and drove nuggets of ice with force. The hailstones weren't big, but the sound of it on our skylights was like hard baseballs being hurled by hundreds of angry pitchers. It sounded like the skylights would break.

We have six skylights throughout the house. When it rains the sound of drops hitting the acrylic surface is a gentle percussive rhythm, but when it hails, it's scary noisy.

So noisy we could not talk above it. So loud it masked what I was sure were breaking windows, shattering skylights and punctured furniture.

But nothing broke, and even the fragile open blooms of my yellow peony survived intact. When it was over, there wasn't much to see on the ground from such a deafening onslaught. Just little white ice cubes scattered all over.

The skylights make the inside of our little stucco box of a house well lit. At times I have to look up at the ceiling to see whether I left a light turned on, and I find it's just sunshine pouring down making the room so bright.

But when driving hail hits those skylights it sounds like the apocalypse, and I cower below thinking they will surely break open over my head. 

They don't though. They hold up fine.

It just sounds like an unholy racket.