All of a sudden, the room darkened. Thunder rumbled. The deluge began in our ears, but we saw nothing out on the back porch. But then the rain came as if it was thrown down from the clouds instead of its usual falling descent. And then we saw it was not rain at all, but hail. Each hailstone ranged from the size of a dried pea to the size of a fat, fresh pea.
Kourey and I were at a playdate (at the home of our meteorologist friend, coincidentally, who had predicted no such thing to his wife before going to sleep for the day), and the two little girls were fascinated by the hailstones piling up, sliding down the slide into a puddle of stones and rain that resembled giant white caviar. We snuck open the front door a few inches and grabbed a few to feel them melt in our hands.
Then we went back to eating hot dogs and homemade whoopie pies (!!), playing CandyLand and jumping on the indoor trampoline. When I got home, Keith told me he had taken pictures of the hail at our house, and handed me the camera.
“Yeah, I figured you would want them. Probably want to blog about the hail or something. I took a picture with the daffodils and the hail in the background. I know you like taking pictures of flowers.” (It’s true. Especially when they are soft and delicate and juxtaposed against something hard, rough or solid.)
“Awww, you get me!”
“Well, I don’t get you,” he laughed, but I predict you.
And that’s close enough for me.
The hail was gone within an hour or so, and, besides stripping all of the new leaves off our trees and plastering them to our deck, left no evidence. But my husband (almost) gets me. And that’s what I’m really blogging about today.