Storm Symphony

 

We had quite a storm the other day.  I usually like to watch storms from the porch, but this one came up rather suddenly, while I was busy writing an article.  I have given up paying attention to the weather forecast – I can tell more than they can by just looking out the window.  When I’m writing I tend to ignore everything else, but I did notice the clouds gathering in the northwest and the particular stillness that sometimes comes just before the weather gets crazy.  I could tell that, in the Southern vernacular, it was coming up a bad storm.

Afterwards, I was thinking that storms, and especially this storm, are very much like the production of a symphony.  First were the clouds – the tune-up for the storm to come.  They blotted out the sun, swirled across the sky and changed from cottony white to swirling gray to ominous charcoal, dropping a curtain over the landscape.  The darkness deepened and the world held its breath.

Out of the darkness came the wind, growing in strength until it lashed the trees, whipping around the house and moaning in the chimney.  There is no sound quite like the wind in a chimney – it always puts me in mind of those gothic stories set on the moors of England. I said a prayer for the one remaining maple tree in my front yard, one of the trees that gave my farm its name more than a century ago.  My hope is that that tree will outlast me.  The others fell victim to another storm, years ago, and I don’t think my daddy, my mom or me ever quite got over it.  When storms like this one come, I am thankful for this sturdy house, whose walls have stood for more than a century and sheltered my family inside.

Thunder mumbled a warning and lightning danced across the sky. I stood at the window, the dogs stretched out in their customary spots around the room, unconcerned about the storm but content to be inside. The lights blinked once and it was my turn to hold my breath, wondering where the flashlight was, whether I could find the lighter for the candles and whether my cell phone was charged up.  But the lights steadied, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

The wind diminished and the rain came, buckets of water pouring down in sheets, pounding on the tin roof and dashing against the windows.  It came from all directions, blotting out my view of anything beyond a few feet. My poor hibiscus plant, which a few minutes before was standing so straight and proud, bent under the assault, the large pink blooms bowing their heads to the ground.  

A chair tumbled end over end across the yard and a flower pot crashed to the ground.  The wind chimes danced wildly, their music drowned out by the clamor of the rain.

Almost as abruptly as it arrived, the rain slacked off, like the last dying notes of music from an orchestra, and the clouds began to break apart, letting in streaks of blue sky.  I stepped on to the porch then, looking around for fallen trees and holding my breath until I saw that the corn in the garden was still upright.  The dogs came outside, yawning and stretching and relieved at the drop in temperature.  They were happy that a new assortment of large sticks was on the ground – a gift especially for them from whatever produced the storm that brought them down.  The grass seemed already a little greener, the birds more cheerful and Scout and Carli started a game of tug-o-war with a red towel they found on the porch.  Things were back to normal on Maple Shade Farm.