Tag Archives: Storms

Bit of a storm at 4 o’clock in the afternoon

A lilac and poplar trees keep time to a 19.7 mph wind. I’m out of my element–or at least my comfort zone–at that wind velocity, so I took this photo through a window. Effie sleeps through these things enviably. I wish you could hear the thunder; we had a few sprigs of lightning as well.

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Filed under Action & Being, Home Life, Nature, Photos, Weather

“Prairie typhoon?”

prairie typhoon

However misleading or inaccurate it may be for our weather media to style the 40 mph wind storming across the Columbia Basin prairie as a “typhoon,” I am enjoying the storm’s sound, and its strength, and its beauty.

I watched a tree limb on our dying poplar hover, swing, and fall, in brief sequence. I was glad that it fell at the edge of our property and not across our driveway, as I had an errand.

Whoa: the first flicker of lights; don’t do that. . .

On my way to town, I saw a woman working on her knees, in her yard, clawing the ground with a hand tool, under a tree. . . .

When I arrived home, I saw that one of the hatches of the chickens’ ark had blown open. Heart in mouth, I looked inside and found our six hens hunkered together and safe, and I managed to get the hatches latched.

Just Another Beautiful Day in Happy Valley. . .

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another night, another storm

Lightning flashes, a relentless beacon dancing to thunder. Our screen door thwacks shut—it opened itself, boosted by a mere 20 mph gust of wind. My husband has fortified our 2-1/2-year-old Andersen door’s steel closer bracket four times. This time he removed the door closer and locked the door; he will find a new solution, but not a drastic one. We like the door.

Monday night our anemometer recorded a gust of 44.1. Wind chases dust, doors, and rain; it bows 7-foot-high sunflowers and cornstalks. Thankfully, wind changes direction here with fair constancy, and restores sunflowers and corn to their vertical stature.

The Big Cougar fire is well under control, 80% contained. The Johnson Bar fire, halfway between Lewiston and Missoula, is nowhere near us. The smoke is gone; only storm clouds now shroud the basalt hills.

It’s been kind of a day: pleasant–even if it now seems long– salted with wearying tasks, and brightened with fruitful errands. I love falling asleep to thunder.

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Breath, not death, is the mother of beauty (Wallace Stevens notwithstanding)

Last night’s thunderstorm wasn’t the usual tonic summer storm conducive to sleep. Lightning flashed like a repeater beacon, thunder rolled in long roaring sequences, one closely following the other, as though the sky could scarcely catch its breath between rumblings; and rain pelted our minute speck of earth with a ferocity one might associate with a huge angry bear, dispossessing a swarm of bees of a honeycomb.

I love storms, but waking frequently throughout the night isn’t exactly fortifying to my already low energy. But there are a few “happilys” this morning. Happily, my most strenuous Wednesday task, dusting objects and surfaces within my reach, can wait an hour until my coffee kicks in. Even more happily, the rain tamped down the dust that always blows in the Heights. And most happily, I received the world’s cutest grandkid video from my daughter this morning, in which she is marching around several crates of tomatoes, playing her husband’s trumpet, while her nearly 2-year-old daughter marches in step behind mommy, grabbing a tomato and trying to play it like a trumpet. She’s just marvelous! You probably had to be there. 🙂 My sharing of the tomato march video prompted one of my friends to send photos of her family’s new Airedale puppy. Tough call on the Comparative Cuteness Index this time.

The mellow-hued calm that follows our valley’s thunderstorms belies the agitations of full-day felony and misdemeanor dockets that occupy my husband two very long days each week. Most of the rest of his time is spent meeting with clients at the jail and in his office, various plea and bail hearings, and trial preparation. “Bad town?” one of my friends queries. Not really. Some elements. Drugs and a lousy economy don’t help; and neither does the ironic comfort-turned-boredom-turned-despair of people who stay on in homey places nobody leaves. They don’t leave for a lot of reasons, and they’re no less likely to engage in unfruitful lives as lawbreakers where they grew up than somewhere else. When you’re estranged from life, you’re estranged wherever you are. Our jail is usually filled above capacity. When the crowd thins, it’s almost as often due to inmate transfers to state prisons as it is to releases.

But it’s God in Whom we live and move and have our being; it’s God who brought us here to do the work He put before us to do. And it’s a beautiful place to which He has brought us, now nearly three years ago.

The sun is shining, there’s dust in the air, it’s 80° before 10 A M, and you wouldn’t know it ever rained.

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But the thunder of His power

who can understand? (Job 26:14)

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Filed under Pneumatos

Fount of fire: the colors of a storm

Last night’s thunderstorm presented a remarkable display of a Lewis-Clark Valley storm. Only a light sprinkle of rain was falling. The setting sun etched the sky, and a broad band of rainbow reached from the ground to a thunderhead, like a fountain of fire, as lightning flashes transected the rainbow. To the south, red claws of cloud prowled northeast. In the east, an impenetrably blue-black sky became the backdrop for most of the lightning that flashed to the rumblings of thunder late into the night.

It was a beautiful storm, and our thick new roof tamped the sound of the rain and the wind: a most encouraging muffling. And our single bonny poppy still stood tall in the morning.

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