Last night, we have a summer storm—wind, heavy rain, sharp lightning, thunder that rumbled for minutes. And it lasted for nearly two hours. I confess, I am not one who particularly enjoys storms, meteorological or otherwise. And last night, I stayed awake throughout the whole storm from 2:45 a.m. until nearly 6:00 a.m. I roamed the house from window to window to see if I could see what the wind was doing to the trees that surrounded the house; I even turned on a local TV station to see if the weather crew were covering the storm. I will probably be doing something similar this afternoon, if the forecasters are correct in predicting another band of severe storm coming our way.
And yet. . .
This morning, there is sunshine. There is a freshness to the air that will be gone in the summer heat and humidity. We will be grateful for the air conditioning, and some of us will be wondering how we did without it when we were children. Though I grew up in a modern home with the conveniences of dishwasher, in-house washer and (gasp) dryer, baseboard heating, we did not have central air conditioning. Only when my grandfather moved in with us did we have get any kind of AC—and that was a window unit to put in his bedroom. It wasn’t too much longer when Mama and Daddy bought one for the family room. I was married when they finally put in central heating and air. To write this makes my childhood seem almost primitive, but then I didn’t think so.
This morning, there is sunshine. My husband is out cutting the grass around the house and probably later around the ponds as the weather permits. I took out the camera to see this freshly washed world.
Honeysuckle, blackberries beginning to ripen, daylilies, vinca, daisies, Rose of Sharon—in bloom, leftover drops of rain in the petals. Leaves torn from the trees scattered over the front yard. . . .
Remnants of the storm and the beauty that remains afterward.
Had I walked longer and farther around the pond, I would certainly have found more beauty, but for the moment, this was enough—enough to remind me of other stories: sipping the nectar from honeysuckle blossoms with my brother, sister, and cousins at Grandma Wessinger’s house during that week we spent with her and picking blackberries in the pasture behind the house and the blackberry pies that Mama would bake (with the gritty seeds of those wild berries). The rose of Sharon tree with its scars on the trunk from the fire eight years ago, still blooming, still standing, though transplanted, resilient and strong. Daylilies from Aunt Miriam, Granny.
These all have stories.
Picture may be worth a thousand words, but sometimes, for me the picture gives me the thousand words to tell the story.