Summer Storms

Yesterday Matt and Landon were tossing the baseball around in the yard at The Farm.  Karen, Gary, Megan, and I were in the house and the others had just ventured upstairs to look at some old games that held some interest for Megan.  When Matt and Cooper came in the house with the report of  'some nasty looking clouds and lots of lightning in the west,' I knew it was time to high-tail it for home so the antique icebox they had loaded in the back of the Escape could be moved into our house before the rain hit.

As I drove home the western sky grew darker and the clouds were rolling. In the rearview mirror I could see spikes of lightning in the direction of Francesville which meant that the storm was heading to our house.  I could envision a three-dimensional picture of my white Escape racing down the Francesville-Pulaski blacktop with dark clouds pursuing it, sunny skies ahead in the east, but forks of lightning punctuating the pursuit with frequent jabs, as if saying 'Hurry!  I am catching up with you!"

I pulled into the drive and backed the Escape toward the garage and sidewalk to the front door.  Matt, Megan, and Cooper were in their vehicle following me.  As I hurried to unlock the front door, Gary and the green Ranger arrived.  In the manipulation of holding the door, watching Cooper so he was out of the way, manuvering the icebox up the steps and around the corner and into the house and across the floor, which had been covered with rugs and a couple of throws, thoughts of the storm just evaporated.  Did the rains come?  Did the house rattle with the sounds of thunder?  Not sure.  My focus was on that icebox and its placement in the living room.

Later in the evening Julie, a friend from Ivy Tech who lives in Galveston, posted on FB that the sound of the thunder was both cool and ominous.  Summer storms are like that.  My response to her post was that every time I hear summer thunder rumbling in the distance and growing louder as it approaches, I think of Washington Irving's short story "Rip Van Winkle."  I taught it many times to 8th graders, and I found an audio version with Will Geer narrating.  I can still hear him reading the explanation given to Rip about thunder - "Henry Hudson and his men are playing nine-pins in the mountains."  That visual of the an explorer with his crew, relaxing after a hard day of breaking through brush and trying to blaze a trail in the New World, bowling in the Catskills, has stuck with me all of these years.  Never do I hear the thunder of an approaching summer thunderstorm without hearing the voice of Will Geer recounting that activity of Henry Hudson and his men. Of course the lightning flashes are the strikes, right?

Summer storms like yesterday's are the kind I like.  Well, maybe not the downpours of rain, but I do like the spottiness of them, the suddenness with which they appear---and disappear.  The fact that one can be driving down a country road and suddenly need to turn on the wipers while looking at the sunbeams dancing on a field just a quarter of a mile away.  Then by the time the wipers have a good start, the sun is shining again. I like watching the sheets of rain moving across a cornfield and hearing the drops rustling the leaves.  I like that I can look at the rain forecast (as I did yesterday) and see 10% chance then notice the change to 90% within a couple of hours because of the pop-up storms.  I like smelling rain as it approaches--and the freshness in the air after it moves east. I like the quick moving in and the quick moving on of a summer rainstorm. I like the natural watering of the flowers, the grass, and the crops.

And I like hearing the rumble of thunder, and the reminder that Henry Hudson and his men are playing nine-pins in the Catskills once again.