Thunderstorms seem to be one of those things that people either love or hate. I love thunderstorms. To me they are awe inspiring. Man, with all of his bluster and noise, seems put in his place when the brooding dark mass of storm clouds moves in, lightning flashing, thunder crashing. It is a reminder of exactly how small we are.
Perhaps I am very odd but I also think thunderstorms are creativity inspiring. I guess seeing the clouds move in, with their swirling mass, and the gusts of wind tearing across the valley, followed by pattering drops of rain and rumbling thunder stirs up my mind. It’s as if my thoughts churn with the weather and though I can’t think of having ever had a brilliant idea during a thunderstorm, it always seems like sometime I just might.
The very wildness of thunderstorms frightens some people. There are people who will close all the doors and shut all the windows as if somehow to keep all that is uncontrolled out of their life. I admit I don’t understand the fear of being struck by lightning while inside a house. Actually, I may not be careful enough, even by reasonable standards. Standing on a porch gives only a limited view of the world, so for as long as possible I like to stand out where I have a clear view of the world so I can see the lightning wherever it strikes, and watch the storm approach.
Thunderstorms, with their violence and fury, are most interesting in their approach. It is the approach that has the artistry and drama. It seems to me the best lightning strikes come before the rain. Exactly how the storm will unleash itself is always an unspoken question until the event finally comes.
After a dry period, July has turned wet and stormy. Wednesday a strong and unusual thunderstorm came through. I say unusual because it came from the southwest, whereas most of our storms comes from the north, northwest. This storm was made further peculiar by the fact that it was visibly approaching as a band. Some storms come as towering black infernos that engulf the sky. This storm was a thin dark band that hung low in the sky, not even reaching from one horizon to the next. The closer the storm grew, the lower the clouds seemed to become until it appeared as if the trees on top of the hill were brushing the bottom of the clouds. This was an optical illusion, I think, but the clouds were low, tendrils hanging down like fingers that were groping for the ground. It was quite a sight to watch, and watch I did, wondering what would happen next.
The western edge of the storm was leading slightly, and so it was that as I watched I saw the advancing rain in profile. Often I will see the rain coming on, directly toward me, but it is a rare thing to be so parallel to the front, close enough to actually see the rain falling. It looked like a great gray veil had dropped from the clouds, descending to the ground. I had a few minutes to watch–perhaps fleetingly wish I had a camera ready–and then the eastern side of the storm began to catch up, rain drops spattering down. Then I reluctantly went inside.
When I was outside watching the storm advance I was supposed to be making supper. Not long after I went inside to (belatedly) begin my work the power went out. Supper was chicken that was supposed to cook in the oven–an oven with temperature controls that didn’t work without electricity. The power remained out for forty minutes. My late start on supper was made even later, but I told myself it was actually a good thing that I hadn’t started promptly. If I had, the power would have gone out halfway through cooking the meat.
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With all the rain I’ve ended up being thoroughly soaked twice in the space of four days. The first time was Monday, when I was in the middle of a job digging a ditch. When the first rain drops began to fall the man I was working for asked me if I wanted to call it quits for the day. I said no, he could go inside but I would keep working. I dislike starting a job and then being forced to stop halfway. Sometimes I suffer for this pig-headedness. The light rain quickly grew heavy, becoming a steady strong downpour. Dirt turned to mud, and I became thoroughly soaked. I didn’t stop working, even when it was suggested several times. I was tempted, but the thought of stopping work, getting in the car and driving away only to have the rain stop a half hour later was unbearable. Besides, after a while I was utterly soaked so what difference did it make any more?
The second time this week I was soaked was on Thursday morning when I went on my bike ride. I left the house when there was just a bit of a wind with a few sprinkles on the air. I hoped the rain would hold off until I finished my ride, but that was not to be. Almost as fast as I left the house behind the rain began to pick up. I steadily grew more and more wet. A quarter of the way through my trip it was clear I would not escape becoming thoroughly sopped.
The unpleasantness of getting soaked is strange if you think about it. We step into a man-made shower and drench ourselves all the time. Completely immersing ourself in water to go swimming is considered a great pleasure. But being rained on is something to avoid. Why?
Twice this week I had an opportunity to think about this question. My conclusion is that it isn’t the rain per se. Clothing is where a lot of the discomfort finds its cause. The texture and feel of wet clothes does not register as natural. If you’ve ever been utterly soaked in jeans and a cotton tee shirt you know the clothing can hold a lot of water. Pants sag wetly, underwear rides up your rear, shoes become heavy and waterlogged, and the shirt slaps damply against your back every time you bend over. Everything feels wrong–besides clinging to you, everything feels as if it is acting under double the normal gravity. This is accentuated with sweat pants, which I was wearing on my bike ride Thursday. Sweat pants can hold a lot of liquid and by the time they are thoroughly soaked they feel like they weigh about twenty pounds. It’s hard to feel comfortable and natural when the pants you’re wearing are sagging so bad they feel ready to fall down around your ankles.
Unfortunately, I could think of no way to use this understanding to help my situation. A full body slicker to keep off the rain would have been nice while I dug the ditch, but I didn’t have that. The other option was digging the ditch without any clothes on, and that wasn’t any more of an option–as successful as it might be in making me feel less waterlogged. I tell myself that at least it wasn’t so unpleasant as working in the cold, or the searing heat. It’s hard to keep that in mind when water is dribbling down your face and back and it feels like your shirt is creeping slowly off your body from the weight of liquid.
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