I checked the forecast earlier this morning, an old gardener’s habit. So I find it not odd this evening to notice the low hanging clouds as I opened the garage door to start my nightly walk with das hund, and wondered if I would be able to finish our first mile. Plenty of cloud-to-cloud lightning, but no thunder at present, so we start out with purpose, looking to put some pavement beneath our feet. I’m en drab tonight, furr returning to my legs, chiseled from the walking and the soccer play. No fancies, except the unders, which are femme of course. We’re up the big hill, down the backwards grade and up again, and then the lightning starts to grow in frequency. Still no thunder.
My mind is miles away, worrying over some of the crap I see at work, but I stay focused enough to speak a few reassuring words to the pup every couple hundred yards or so: “good girl, come on, big circle, biiig circle”, as we round the half-mile mark at the front of our subdivision. As we start back up the home stretch, the thunder sounds for the first time within my hearing, and I eye the skies carefully, watching the lightning dance, and make ever quickening bright round flashes in the thickening soup overhead. My mind is at that moment more focused on the “here and now”, although I remember a tale I heard from, I think, my mother, in which a former teammate on my youth soccer team is said, while playing high school ball, to have been nearly struck by lightning when he apparently noticed his own hair standing on end, which prompted him to begin to exit the pitch when lightning struck the goalpost beneath which he stood only seconds before. Indeed, psychosomatic or not, when I heard the first thunderclap — admittedly still quite some distance away — I began to feel an odd tingling running first up my spine, then up the back of my neck, and finally up my scalp on the back of my head as I quickened my own pace, one eye on the sky, another on the dog, making sure she is making good way. We didn’t think twice, as she was ready to turn early and head for home rather than round the second-to-last cul-de-sac again. The thunder was moving predictably closer, and we even skipped the final cul-de-sac to beat it back inside, feeling the chill suddenly in the air, not having to strain to hear the trees on the ridge behind rustling and tossing in the breeze with the storm’s approach.
Recent storms have originated in the Gulf of Mexico, and they bring the stifling humidity and fragrance of the ocean on their prevailing winds, even as far north as the Piedmont Triad. But this one is different, the temperature dropping dramatically in just a few minutes, a cool mountain sweetness in the air gracing my nostrils. We have the odd storm roll through here from the northwest, hopping the Blue Ridge, and rolling down the leeward side, gathering speed when it hits the flats that hold the Yadkin River, gathering moisture every mile before it reaches our home.
So, so tired. Had a few things turn my way today, but the pace and responsibility is tremendous, and it is a real endurance test.
I look essentially androgynous tonight, except for the awful furry gams (so prefer hairless), but otherwise all girly in my mind.
Kisses – KM