The blessing of rain came at three o'clock this morning. There was lightning! There was thunder! When Dennis checked the rain gauge it registered 1-1/2 inches. We could hardly believe our good luck.
I sent a message to our neighbor Laurie. "How much rain in your rain gauges?" (They have three.)
"Half an inch," she replied, adding that she is going to move to our house, where we consistently get more rain than she does.
Here in the drought belt whenever there's rain in the area e-mail messages go flying between friends and neighbors. Typically these messages are initiated by those who got rain.
"We had a nice soaking rain for about 45 minutes. Hope it rained at your house, too," they say.
Sometimes, though, the person who didn't get rain initiates the exchange. "I heard thunder at three o'clock," Barb wrote this morning, "but it only sprinkled. Did you get rain?"
Right now we're obsessed with rain and long for it. Summer rain in Kansas is almost always spotty. Western Missouri is pretty much the same. My brother, who lives there, told me a few weeks ago that rain fell on the north half of his tiny town (population: 218) but not on the south half where he lives. That's how it always is: some get it, some don't.
Those of us who don't get rain rejoice for those who receive its blessing, but we also feel a twinge of that rascally, deadly sin of envy. We try not to, but we can't deny the feeling. We're so weary of dragging hoses around, picking and choosing the plants we will try to keep alive and watching the others dry up. All the while our hope and resolve wilt under the unrelenting heat.
We're only human. A little twinge of envy doesn't seem so deadly under these circumstances. And sooner or later, our turn will come.
I sent a message to our neighbor Laurie. "How much rain in your rain gauges?" (They have three.)
"Half an inch," she replied, adding that she is going to move to our house, where we consistently get more rain than she does.
Here in the drought belt whenever there's rain in the area e-mail messages go flying between friends and neighbors. Typically these messages are initiated by those who got rain.
"We had a nice soaking rain for about 45 minutes. Hope it rained at your house, too," they say.
Sometimes, though, the person who didn't get rain initiates the exchange. "I heard thunder at three o'clock," Barb wrote this morning, "but it only sprinkled. Did you get rain?"
Right now we're obsessed with rain and long for it. Summer rain in Kansas is almost always spotty. Western Missouri is pretty much the same. My brother, who lives there, told me a few weeks ago that rain fell on the north half of his tiny town (population: 218) but not on the south half where he lives. That's how it always is: some get it, some don't.
Those of us who don't get rain rejoice for those who receive its blessing, but we also feel a twinge of that rascally, deadly sin of envy. We try not to, but we can't deny the feeling. We're so weary of dragging hoses around, picking and choosing the plants we will try to keep alive and watching the others dry up. All the while our hope and resolve wilt under the unrelenting heat.
We're only human. A little twinge of envy doesn't seem so deadly under these circumstances. And sooner or later, our turn will come.
2 comments:
About our rain gauges--maybe there's something in the design that affects how much rain is caught. That wouldn't make any sense, of course, but I think I'll get one more like yours. Hey, if I total the rain in all three gauges, we'd have 1 1/2 inches, too!
I've been wondering whether our slightly different topographies affect rainfall. There must be a reason for our different rainfalls considering that our houses are so close together.
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