After I wrapped up my speech and presentation to the Kansas Writers Assocation this afternoon, a few raindrops were speckling the windshield as I drove home.
I knew what the forecast said - a chance of strong thunderstorms this afternoon and evening - and sure enough just after I carried everything inside thunder began rumbling ominously. I found myself relaxing on the couch, looking out the balcony door and watching waves of heavy rain pound my neighborhood.
Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled and then the sun would come out --- and 20 minutes later it would happen all over again. And then again.
It's been an interesting night, listening to the thunder, hearing the rain wash over the building...
They say no two snowflakes are alike, but today has me convinced no two rumbles of thunder are the same, either. The next time a thunderstorm moves through, listen to the thunder. Not just its presence, but its timber.
Those tones could be something like fingerprints for a thunderstorm, at various stages of its intensity.
Showing posts with label thunderstorms. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thunderstorms. Show all posts
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
And down the stretch......
Kansas was known for years as the Breadbasket of the Nation, because so much hard red winter wheat is grown here.
By mid-June, wheat fields along the Oklahoma border would be waves of gold undulating in the whipping south winds, as farmers waited, poised with their combines and grain trucks, for the moisture level in the heads of the stalks to reach the optimum numbers.
But this time of year can also bring explosive thunderstorms packing heavy rain and huge hail - and just one storm could wipe out the entire crop. That happened more than once to Mom and Dad in more than 50 years next to the Sawmill Creek in central Kansas.
Farther north in the state, the wheat is typically still be green in mid-June, but farmers there are no less nervous than their brethren on the border. A hard rain or strong wind as the wheat begins to "turn" - changing from green to yellow/gold as the grain reaches maturity - could knock the stalks down. If that happens, there's little or no chance for recovery, because a plant's elasticity vanishes once it changes colors, and it can't stand back up - meaning a combine's header can't efficiently reach the heads bowed down with the kernels in their crowns.
I liken it to a racehorse that has been carefully bred, raised and trained...is running beautifully during the race....and then fractures a leg as it nears the finish line. No winner - just heartbreak.
How challenging it is for farmers to lie in bed at night this time of year, listening to rain or hail - or both - pound the roof of the house, wondering how much damage is being done to the wheat.
And the balance sheet.
And the farm's future.
By mid-June, wheat fields along the Oklahoma border would be waves of gold undulating in the whipping south winds, as farmers waited, poised with their combines and grain trucks, for the moisture level in the heads of the stalks to reach the optimum numbers.
But this time of year can also bring explosive thunderstorms packing heavy rain and huge hail - and just one storm could wipe out the entire crop. That happened more than once to Mom and Dad in more than 50 years next to the Sawmill Creek in central Kansas.
Farther north in the state, the wheat is typically still be green in mid-June, but farmers there are no less nervous than their brethren on the border. A hard rain or strong wind as the wheat begins to "turn" - changing from green to yellow/gold as the grain reaches maturity - could knock the stalks down. If that happens, there's little or no chance for recovery, because a plant's elasticity vanishes once it changes colors, and it can't stand back up - meaning a combine's header can't efficiently reach the heads bowed down with the kernels in their crowns.
I liken it to a racehorse that has been carefully bred, raised and trained...is running beautifully during the race....and then fractures a leg as it nears the finish line. No winner - just heartbreak.
How challenging it is for farmers to lie in bed at night this time of year, listening to rain or hail - or both - pound the roof of the house, wondering how much damage is being done to the wheat.
And the balance sheet.
And the farm's future.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Morning thunder
Thunder rumbled with the dawn, and then a heavy rain started pounding the roof like a sudden ovation at a concert.
Lightning flashed, its bright intensity defying the window curtains and snapping me more quickly awake than I wanted to be.
No need for an alarm clock on this Friday morning.
But the rain and the lightning didn't last long. By the time I was leaving for the office, the rain had ended and patches of clear sky were visible.
The trees, the flowers, the bushes all looked freshly washed and sparkling in the splotchy morning sunshine. The air was clear and smelled wonderfully fresh, and I wondered how many photographers were drooling at the prospect of shooting images moments after a summer shower had passed.
As I turned onto the street, road crews were on the phone - almost assuredly to supervisors - to discuss the lakes that their holes in the asphalt had become. I'm sure they weren't asking for fishing poles.
Driving to the office, I noticed disintegrating cumulus clouds in the upper atmosphere and light wisps of cottony cirrus clouds flying beneath them toward the north at a lower altitude. Any teacher wanting to demonstrate how the atmosphere is like several layers of air stacked atop each other would only need that scene to demonstrate the point.
Already the morning sun was warm. I would have loved to sit on a porch with a cup of coffee and my laptop and soak in this pleasing summer song of a day. But I didn't have that luxury.
It was a disappointment to have to step inside. Anywhere.
Lightning flashed, its bright intensity defying the window curtains and snapping me more quickly awake than I wanted to be.
No need for an alarm clock on this Friday morning.
But the rain and the lightning didn't last long. By the time I was leaving for the office, the rain had ended and patches of clear sky were visible.
The trees, the flowers, the bushes all looked freshly washed and sparkling in the splotchy morning sunshine. The air was clear and smelled wonderfully fresh, and I wondered how many photographers were drooling at the prospect of shooting images moments after a summer shower had passed.
As I turned onto the street, road crews were on the phone - almost assuredly to supervisors - to discuss the lakes that their holes in the asphalt had become. I'm sure they weren't asking for fishing poles.
Driving to the office, I noticed disintegrating cumulus clouds in the upper atmosphere and light wisps of cottony cirrus clouds flying beneath them toward the north at a lower altitude. Any teacher wanting to demonstrate how the atmosphere is like several layers of air stacked atop each other would only need that scene to demonstrate the point.
Already the morning sun was warm. I would have loved to sit on a porch with a cup of coffee and my laptop and soak in this pleasing summer song of a day. But I didn't have that luxury.
It was a disappointment to have to step inside. Anywhere.
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