Fragments From Floyd

Suddenly, summer. We ate our evening meal on the front porch last night. A breeze stirred, and unlike it's short-day cold-day relative, it didn't make us draw in and pull our collars around our necks. The warm wind, sweet with whatever it is that makes the air smell like dessert, was as relaxing as that first instant in a hot shower. Ahhhh.

But with the warm air at the ground rising into cold air above, we were awakened at midnight with the first of what will likely be many more late-night thunderstorms. Lightning sent our bedroom black to white to black again with blinding quickness and brilliance, and thunder bellowed with such resonance it could have been coming from a mile below Goose Creek, shaking the house. The dog soon was standing beside me, both of us wide awake. I got up and unplugged the microwave, cut off the modem, unplugged my laptop, came back to bed and did not sleep.

What am I going to do about the gutters? I can't negotiate the 30 foot ladder it takes to get the job done--not anymore, since a back condition five years ago left my right calf with some permanent muscle damage. I called a fellow who had done this for us once before. He said he'd come, and didn't. Now, the gutters are full of tree trash, and all night long, water spilled in great sheets onto the metal roof of the front porch--not the pleasant patter that we are used to, but a war-drum whose beat told me for hours last night how sorry I was going to be when the wood rotted on the eaves. Bad homeowner! Slacker! Wimp! it pulsed, on and on.

But it was raining, at last. We were beginning to despair that another summer drought would be ahead. It still might be, of course. But the dust is settled on the road this morning; the blackberries and the garden needed deep moisture at this critical time; and the creeks, down to a thin ribbon, will run not full, but fuller today, and for a few more. I'll slip out on the porch here soon and see if I can hear the difference in the dark.