Those of you who live in our area understand the vagaries of our local weather (I know every locale claims the most variable of climes, but the Midwest is its own entity).  We’ve had more than our share of unstable storm systems spewing out incredible energy in the form of lightning, thunder, winds, hail, and the dreaded tornado.  Last night was memorable; we watched the television screen in rapt attention as Technicolor bands marched across the area, undulating with barely suppressed rage.  Tornadoes touched down mere miles from our house, and I swore I could feel the static electricity in the air.  As was inevitable, we heard our local warning siren faintly wailing through the rushing wind.  It was time to leave the comfort of our first floor family room and venture down into the cluttered wilderness that is our basement.  The area we have staked out is behind our furnace, about 10 feet from a set of double steel doors leading to our backyard.  There, tucked among packing boxes and various odds and ends are an old patio lounger and the poor rocking chair that I mercilessly sponge painted in shades of pink and green many years ago.  My husband and I corral our two cowardly dogs and head to the basement stairs.  What I find interesting are the items I need to take with me in order to feel relatively secure.  First, I grab my purse, then my violin, followed by a laptop computer to hopefully keep us connected to the outside world.   When I think about it, these items represent a tiny part of what we possess.  Sitting in the mostly dark basement, listening to the sharp sound of hail against the metal doors, with my husband next to me and the dogs intertwined under our feet, I don’t feel worried.  I have what I need.