Windy With Heavy Rain Likely
Monte is outside slogging around trying to avert some damage (while I stay indoors, trying to be a writer). But this is a particularly ferocious storm, and now I’m sort of concerned about him. Sideways rain is thrashing against the window panes, and there’s an all-pervasive din of unleashed wind and water punctuated by inexplicable banging and crashing. The trees are trembling and dripping, newborn brooks have appeared all around us, a cascade of mud is tumbling down a hill behind the house, and the wind is literally howling. It looks cold and muddy and treacherous out there, so where is my husband? Should I bundle up and look for him?
I think he must have known when he married me that I was not one of those tough, hard-working, pioneer women who was going to be out there digging trenches, clearing culverts, and plowing the lower forty before coming into the house to stoke a fire, make a stew, bake a pie and knit a warm sweater for him. But this is becoming a dilemma now. What if he’s out there, injured? I think I need to bundle up and go in search of him. Stay tuned.
And so I donned my rain gear, slipped into my tall rubber boots, and ventured out. The wind and rain nearly knocked me over, but I walked carefully through the mud, wet grass, and sycamore leaves, avoiding places where water was pooling or where strong, fast currents crossed my path, and looked for evidence of Monte: a shovel, a footprint, an open gate…anything. But there was no sign of him. Isn’t it funny how annoyance and frustration build to anger, and then anger morphs into worry and panic?
I went back in the house and texted our neighbors. David graciously agreed to meet me on the trail to the well, near the fence that separates our properties. Both of us dripping wet, we stepped gingerly over newly fallen tree branches and slippery stretches of mud and leaves, and we walked along the bank of the creek, which was running high and fast. I was in the worry mode.
“Take it easy,” said David, looking down at the raging water below us. “If Monte fell in there, there’s already nothing we can do about it.”
This wasn’t terribly reassuring, but I knew it was a well-intentioned assessment of the situation, and I was glad to have a companion in my search.
And then, near the cattle guard, there was Monte, in the midst of digging a channel to divert water into a drainage area. He was drenched, and he was expending considerable effort, but he was otherwise quite fine and somewhat baffled to see us. My worry subsided into relief, and although relief, when correlated with love, is more powerful than anger, I was still residually annoyed.
“You were gone a long time,” I said.
“There’s a lot to do,” was his reply.
It was suddenly obvious to me that he was actually enjoying the work and the sense of accomplishment it gave him. He was being proactive and preemptive, taming slightly that which can never be tamed, pushing a little against that which will always push back. He felt useful. This has been his role for thirty years, and he does it well, and although it’s wearisome grunt work that never seems to end, I could see he finds it satisfying, in a way. He was fully engaged in his one-man industry, flushed and grinning, with a list of follow-up chores already taking shape in his head.
“Didn’t you ever think I might worry?” I asked, going for the loving-wife angle. “It’s dangerous to be out here by yourself. Look how fast the creek is running.”
“I’m not an idiot,” said my husband, and that seemed to be the end of the discussion. He’s definitely not. His drainage channel was working, and he found several other areas to clear on the way back to the house.
“Do you need any help?” I asked. Apparently, he did not. And that was fortunate, because I was cold, and eager to go back inside.
And maybe this is really just a love letter in disguise: to my hard-working husband, to this magnificent and demanding place, to the wondrous too-muchness of it all.
