My last day in Virginia was like this:
I went to my cousin's house to see the trees that were struck by lightning and nearly killed his dog. The dog is fine, but one tree is going to topple over and crush the house. My relatives are trying to tie it off, and pull it so it doesn't fall on the house. My cousin's wife is close to tears that she's gonna lose her roof, holding her 22 month old kid, just frantic.
I'm scrambling around taking picture after picture of the house, hoping that if it does fall on it, I get a great before and after shoot.
We leave and go visit my other cousin, who hasn't been married a year yet and already has a two story house. 100 years ago, they'd call a building like this a mansion, but now it's just a house. It's a perfect building, in every facet of the sense but something about me makes me hate it. When I was landing in Virginia I viewed a neighborhood like this from the plane and every house is the same. I think that's what made me despise it. Nothing special about it. Furthermore, a house is not a home and I'd rather have that quality than clean carpets and high ceilings.
We got a phonecall from my other cousin and the tree fell and it just barely missed the house.
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