The ice storm in Fayetteville, Arkansas descended about a month after ours struck in the hills of Western Massachusetts. The gunshot sound of cracking branches, the house-shaking falling limbs and trees. The amazement at dawn when the damage could be seen clearly. Power was out there for days as well. One commercial strip had power, so people crowded those gas stations and restaurants. At Denny's for breakfast last weekend, our waitress talked about moving to Fayetteville from Texas, and loving it. Things are slowing on the job for her, but she said business was great after the storm; they hired more people. Now, they're playing to a slow house.

Trees are broken in great numbers, branches and limbs hanging, with many piles awaiting collection by the town. The residents who are able gather it and place it curbside. Pick up was organized for the north-south streets, and then the opposite. I saw the truck and grabber two streets over, parallel to my sister's on Sunday. It is hard to imagine this great task being completed. And the feeling of sadness because of the devastation to the trees doesn't subside.