I pulled over and sut off the engine, long buried memories welling up in a myriad of thoughts and images; as if a floodgate suddenly opened, rushing water transformed into changing patterns of remembrance. It was an old house, built at the century's turn, white with two huge oak trees in front, like towering sentinels; only a stump remaining of the even larger oak that once grew in the back. Over forty years have passed since we lived there, my parents and older brother Bob. Mom pregnant, I'm sure by mistake; she in her late thirties but I never gave it much thought; I was only ten. There was an old shed in the back, out beyond the garden next to the alley by the oak tree; tilted to one side and dilapidated. Thanks to dad's penchant for nicknames, we called it the slanty shanty. Mom always telling dad it was unsafe and ought to be torn down; he always in agreement though we knew he never would. We had all developed an affiity and peculiar admiration for the shed, beaten and battered yet still standing after so many years. In warm weather, the kitchen door was usually open; an old wood framed screen keeping most of the insects out. It had a new spring dad put on, too short and when closing; just letting go really, it would gain momentum, snapping shut with surprising force, the crack like a gun firing; flushing the birds in the garden. And mom yelling not to slam thr door though she knew it was the spring and dad calling it our noise making scarecrow. I vividly recall that April evening, sky black and ominous as I took shelter; mom and dad gone to a movie, my brother visiting a friend. From the cellar, I could hear thunder over the wind and rain as the tempest raged; the old house straining under nature's onslaught. Then abruptly, the storm was over as I cautiously emerged from the cellar, into the kitchen and out the back door; stunned as I viewed the devastation left in the storm's wake. The giant oak had snapped in two like a twig, its immensity covering most of the garden; leaves and branches scattered everywhere. As the evening sun broke through the thinning cloud cover, I could see an outline through fallen branches; a few steps to my left and a clear view; old slanty shanty bathed in light and still standing. Somehow, it had survived the storm's fury unscathed. I remember smiling as I stood staring in disbelief and wonderment those many years ago, thinking of the storm and the shanty; naively pondering why God had wasted a miracle on that rundown old shed. And I still wonder to this day, though randomness has no secrets to reveal nor meaning it must defend.