Summer storms

We've been having a lot of rain lately, too much rain, really. The frequent showers were annoying enough, as they kept chasing us in from the garden. In fact, a couple of times, Mike refused to come in, not believing that the rain would get serious. I, however, ran for the house when I looked up to see an ancient hickory tree bending in the wind towards me. A week or two ago, a tornado ripped across the cornfields a few miles north of us, destroying buildings in two nearby towns. Friday, we went to bed with no idea that the current rain would turn into a downpour. Saturday, I woke up far too early, and as the sun began to rise, I looked out the window and did a double take -- where pastures are normally located, there were lakes. We didn't know it at the time, but the hay field had even flooded, and a good portion of the hay that had been cut the day before had been washed away.

The plan for yesterday morning was to get ourselves into the garden first thing, so that we could begin to reclaim the space as ours, rather than allowing it to grow into a wild, weedy jungle. I wish I were exaggerating, but we have weeds as big as the tomato plants, which are currently about two feet tall. I woke up around six yesterday morning, and I immediately realized that it should be brighter. After all, the sun rises just before 5 a.m. this time of year. Yes, a storm was brewing. And before we could even think about coffee, it was pouring.

Monday night, when I was milking goats, I kept hearing a banging noise and wondered what kind of trouble the goats had found. Finally I realized it was thunder. Then the electricity was gone. Carmen kept munching her grain, as if nothing odd was happening. Luckily, I had put a night light in the milking parlor only three days earlier, during the Friday night storm, and this particular night light has a battery back-up, so if you lose power, it continues to shine. It felt like I was milking by candle light, but before I had a chance to get too nostalgic, the lights came back on. A couple minutes later, the lights went out again. And then they were back on. They flickered one final time before Mike came into the milking parlor.

He had been in the pasture when the storm began. He saw lightening strike the hay field across the road and was only able to count to three before he heard the thunder, meaning that the lightening was striking very close to us. To make the whole situation scarier, lightening was striking the ground all around him. And he was carrying his scythe, a long metal thing, which would act as a perfect lightening rod. I never understood why he didn't just leave it behind, but at least he arrived at the barn safely.

More storms are in the forecast for today and tomorrow.