Thunder Storm

Years since I've seen so much lightning. Rolling thunder, driving rain. No way to sleep, so I got a wee dram and rolled a smoke, sat on the sofa and watched for several hours. Epic fireworks and sound, I saw lightning hit a tree. The power went out, but it didn't matter. I wanted to see what the water had done, so I drove into town. The overflow at the lake was running full and Turkey Creek, below, was in full spate. At the race track the water level was up eight or ten feet (the top of the refreshment stand window) and the Scioto was roiling into the Ohio. A spectacular display of power. I went to the library and everyone was talking about the storm, got the new McGuane and the new Llosa. I had dawdled at so many places it was after lunch time and I was starved, stopped at the pub, and the special was a fried oyster plate, expensive, for me, for lunch, but I knew it would serve me for dinner too. A glorious surprise. I love oysters, have raised them and harvested many bushels, and these were very good. I have to go back to town tomorrow (I know this is terrible planning, but I needed a bit of the outside world) for my HR Block appointment with Ruth and if they're still serving oysters, another round. I got the bi-annual haircut today, and Mr. Bender trimmed my beard and eyebrows; his task, I told him, was to make me more presentable, I had been scaring small children in the supermarket. It's warm enough, when I get home, that I heat water and take a bath in the sheep-watering trough out on the front deck. It feels great to scrub off the winter layer of scales and flaking skin, dry off, then rub lotion into my feet and legs. The left-over oyster plate, with some English cheese and pickles, makes a lovely dinner. I'll take some grief about my spruced appearance at the pub, but I haven't felt this good in several months. I start a laundry basket of winter things that need to be washed and put away, then cull through clothing, things I never wear, that need to go to the Goodwill. I need a heavy wool shirt, the Black Watch I've been wearing for 15 years is worn through at the elbows, and I need another twelve-pack of black cotton socks, but my demands are not that extreme. That we are not virgins. That the ruts in the road are quite apparent. Maybe you've never had sausage gravy on biscuits. Heaven forbid. Where I come from, gravy was a beverage. Red-Eye gravy was a staple in my youth, Mom made it with just the flick of the wrist. Her version was black coffee in pan drippings from breakfast ham slices. A vinaigrette among the thickened gravies and sauces, thin, greasy, and salty, but on an opened, hot fresh biscuit, it is divine. I was spoiled early by good home cured hams, and, perforce, as they can't be found anymore, I've been a life-long student of curing meat. You start with salt-pork, it's hard to screw that up, then move on to Canadian Bacon. Eventually you build a smoke-house. First thing you know you're curing elk hams for Jewish friends. It could be a business, right? Antelope jerky. Eggplant chips. Shade-grown kale shoots dried in the mid-day sun. I got my hair cut, my beard trimmed, I threw away that shirt that was a disgrace; moving on, I notice that I'm using last year's calendar and it doesn't make much difference. You either add or subtract a day, it doesn't matter, except that they don't sell whiskey on Sunday, which is stupid, but easily avoided. Once or twice in fifteen years I've thrown myself at the mercy of whatever might be in B's cupboard, usually Elijah Craig; though once, in a snowstorm, after I had hiked through a crystal jungle, he sent me home with half a bottle of Woodford Reserve. Just after dawn two Red-Headed woodpeckers fly in, working the dead-bark spots on the hickory trees. I love the way they cock their heads, listening.