It turns out that this is a specialized un-soundness, because last night, the storm cut a tall
It could have fallen on the roof, and it didn't. It could have severely damaged the fence, and it didn't. As far as tree damage this size goes, we're extremely lucky.
I'm still wondering what else I could sleep through, though.
In unrelated news: the YA author's name is Scott Westerfeld, people. Westerfeld. Not Westerfield. I have several of his books right here, and unless his publisher has misspelled his name on all of them: Westerfeld. No i. I am not a close personal friend of Scott Westerfeld's -- in fact, I've never so much as exchanged e-mail with him -- but having been Marisa Lindgren about a hundred times too many in my childhood, I am sensitive to this sort of thing, and I saw it misspelled three times by different people on my friendslist in the last 24 hours. All of them praising him, which almost makes it worse to Marsha Liger here. Think of him as Oedipus if you must; there are no i's. Westerfeld. Okay? Okay.