Posted on May 16, 2025

First Big Rain in South Bend Sends Trampolines Airborne

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South Bend, IN — When Bitch Say What caught up with lifelong South Bend resident Earl Ray Jenkins after last night’s first big storm of the year, he was already outside in cutoff jeans, beer in hand, inspecting the damage. “That wind was stronger than my first marriage, and about as forgiving,” Earl said, lighting a cigarette with a lighter he found in a neighbor’s yard. “I ain’t seen lawn chairs fly like that since Fourth of July at my cousin Daryl’s. But I’ll tell you what—nothing beats the sight of a trampoline doing a full backflip over two fences. I’d of tried to catch it, but I respect natural selection.”

Earl, 59, says he’s no stranger to Indiana weather. “I been through blizzards, floods, and a cornfield fire started by a malfunctioning bug zapper. But last night? First thunderstorm of the year, and half the block’s trampolines went airborne like they heard there was free beer in Michigan.”

By sunrise, Earl had already checked in on half his neighbors, mostly to see where their patio furniture landed. “It’s like a yard sale with no prices. I found three lawn chairs, a plastic flamingo, and someone’s garden gnome in my front hedges. Not mine, but finders keepers.”

According to Earl, the real excitement started when the rain let up and folks came outside to assess the chaos. “You could tell who owns a trampoline—just look for the confused faces and the muddy footprints leading toward the next county,” he said. “My neighbor Patty hasn’t run that fast since the last time the ice cream truck hit her street.”

Local Facebook groups exploded with sightings. “People posting: ‘Anyone missing a trampoline?’ Like, who’s gonna admit to owning the one tangled in the stop sign on Ridgedale Road?” Earl laughed. “Somebody’s kid is gonna be real disappointed, unless they wanted a new zip code with their bouncing.”

Earl’s own backyard, usually home to an impressive collection of broken flower pots and a garden hose that only kinks when you need it, came through mostly unscathed. “Lost my ‘World’s Okayest Dad’ mug and half a bag of charcoal. I can live with that. But if that storm took my beer fridge, we’d have a real emergency.”

Earl said he hasn’t seen this kind of excitement since the “Great Squirrel Incident” of 2017, when a family of raccoons set up shop in his shed. “That was chaos, but at least the squirrels didn’t try to fly away with the neighbor’s patio umbrella,” he said. “Storms around here just hit different.”

By late morning, it was clear that while the storm left the town a little wetter and a lot more trampoline-free, spirits were high. “Nothing brings South Bend together like hunting down stray patio furniture and pretending we’re all meteorologists,” Earl said. “My advice? If you want to keep your stuff, bolt it down. Otherwise, just enjoy the show.”

Earl says his favorite part of every storm is watching which neighbor makes the first “storm selfie” post. “First big thunderclap, and suddenly the whole block’s outside pretending they’re storm chasers for the Weather Channel. I saw Carol from three doors down standing in the driveway, arms out, yelling ‘I am the storm!’ while her husband was chasing their patio cushions down Ridgedale.”

He swears the South Bend social media scene is half the entertainment. “Soon as the power flickered, folks went online: ‘Does anyone else have power?’ Of course we don’t, Cheryl, it’s called a thunderstorm, not a WiFi update. Someone offered to trade a trampoline for a working flashlight—I’d have taken that deal if my own flashlight wasn’t from 1997.”

According to Earl, the block group chat was “pure gold.” “Diane wanted to know if anyone saw her flamingo, Gary was worried about his tomatoes, and old Frank sent everyone the same radar screenshot four times. I think we all pretend to understand those little red squiggly lines, but really we’re just hoping our basements don’t flood.”

Earl’s summary of the first big rain? “Could’ve been worse. The gutters are still attached, the beer fridge still runs, and the grandkids got a free science lesson about wind velocity. Next time, I’m putting a GPS tracker on that trampoline. I hear it’s halfway to Mishawaka by now.”

If there’s one thing Earl says he’s learned from living in South Bend, it’s this: “Storms come and go, but the stories—and the missing patio furniture—last forever. And if your yard’s looking empty, just wait for the next storm. Something interesting is bound to blow in.”

As the sun broke through and the puddles started to shrink, neighbors emerged for the traditional post-storm “walk of shame” to reclaim whatever wasn’t nailed down. One couple wandered up and down Ridgedale Road with a wagon, politely returning soccer balls and orphaned patio cushions. “We found a Barbie pool and two grill covers in our backyard,” said one neighbor. “We don’t have a Barbie, or a grill, but we’re keeping them until someone claims them or we get bored.”

Meanwhile, Diane finally found her plastic flamingo two blocks over—wedged between a mailbox and a shrub. “That bird’s survived more storms than my first marriage,” she laughed. Frank, not to be outdone, declared he’d tracked the storm “using only my knees and a Doppler radar app,” and insisted the next one was coming “sooner than you think.”

Even the mail carrier got in on the act, delivering a stack of sodden Amazon packages along with three rogue frisbees and an apologetic note: “If this isn’t yours, blame the wind.”

In true South Bend fashion, the whole neighborhood seemed to take the chaos in stride. Earl, of course, had the last word. “Storms bring out the best in folks around here. We swap stories, share lost-and-found lists, and for a day or two, nobody’s too busy to say hi. Besides, I like a little excitement—keeps us young, or at least gives us something to talk about while waiting for the next big rain.”

Reporter’s Note from Bitch Say What:

After following Earl and his neighbors on their storm recovery adventure, one thing is clear: in South Bend, it’s not the wind or the rain that leaves a mark—it’s the laughs, the borrowed lawn chairs, and the way everyone checks on everyone else. And as for the trampolines, well, if you see one rolling down Ridgedale Road, do the neighborly thing: just wave as it passes by.