Big Sky Country

I drove downstate among thunderstorms and rain generated by enormous thunderhead clouds, storm cells, the most dramatic I've seen, yowza, and realized they were so impressive because I was on a plateau and could see horizon to horizon -- as I don't at my home in the hills. Pelted by rain that covered my car like a tarp I stopped in Phillipsburg, Mo., home of the World's Biggest Gift Shop and waited for someone to bring me my gift. With God all things are possible, right? No, really, next door was a huge candy store where I bought cheddar popcorn and coffee, in line with my standard on-the-road menu of junque. And greedily ate it, and watched the clouds.

Anti-Squirrel Strategy #4,381

The squirrel-proof seed feeder is suspended on a wire between two trees quite a distance apart, but squirrels have learned to leap from one tree or the other onto the feeder's roof so that seed mix flies from the "squirrel-proof" feeder, hits the ground, and is eaten not by birds but by horrid little rodents. I have tried many ways to combat this. "Grease the top." "Put mousetrap sticky-paper on top." "Put baffles." (Baffles made of wire, paper, etc. were all ineffective; I've been at this now for 17 years. They don't crawl over the wire. They fly from the tree directly to the feeder.) "Put a nice deep tub (like a trash can) full of water underneath." "Shoot them." (I wish!). Today while picking up branches broken by the storm, I had this camouflage-type idea. I am hoping that it seems to the squirrels impossible to gauge a perfect landing on the feeder's roof. And that if they try, a whole bunch of sticks will rain down on them.

It's been working for the past 45 minutes! But you know what? If they don't get the seed they eat the suet. If there's no suet they drop onto my roof and, hanging upside down, suck nectar from the dangling hummingbird feeders. Eight ounces of nectar doesn't last the day.

Hummingbirds Can Drown

Out of electrical power for six hours as a huge gigantic terrific thunderstorm seized the world  Thursday night about 6 p.m., turning the sky as dark as 9 p.m., ripping down tree limbs and pouring rain, with nothing else to do I watched as a hummingbird clung, its bill raised and vertical the whole time, to the feeder for half an hour as the feeder swung in the pummeling wind. It did not sip. It did not flinch.

The bird's endurance was so remarkable I even took video that included the thunder, lightning, and slashing rain (and accidentally deleted the video) but fortunately also took still photographs as best I could. Even when drenched and ragged, the hummingbird clung, face to the sky as if in defiance, and only near the end of the half-hour did it waver a little before buzzing away. Hummingbirds come from hurricane country so they know how to adapt their flight patterns but this was the first time I saw this happening: It faced upward so its nostrils wouldn't fill with rainwater and drown it.

Every Storm is Different

It's May; spring storms are many, but I've learned from my up-close-and-personal point of view about how very differently nature cooks up each storm, no two alike. This one started overhead, with cumuli. Others approach from a distance, gray as a dull knife blade, on the western horizon. That usually means a storm lasting one day. Blue-gray means a thunderstorm, much more intense. South-western horizon, the very dark gray looks bad on radar but often peters out before it gets to foothill country. North-western horizon, cold, spattering rain. Greenish-gray, very serious conditions are approaching; unplug electronics, batten hatches. A storm coming into this part of Missouri from the east is very unnatural, usually the backlash of a Gulf or southern hurricane, and the wild animals get frantic.

The Afterglow

Toward sunset on a simmering-hot day, a day or two ago, a storm came. According to radar it was a big 'un. Violent. So I put on shoes, rounded up my purse and crucial belongings such as earrings, phone and charger, and hid in the the only room without windows, the bathroom. (Cabin is built on a concrete slab, no basement.) Yet the storm just skirted here and didn't even knock the power out. So I crept out and saw, in the east where the storm was heading, the strangest orange sky. Glowing orange with a touch of gray. Tried photographing it, to capture the color. And in the photograph I saw a ring thing (lens glare, I thought). I looked up higher in the actual sky and saw layered onto this eerie orange background, a rainbow. From hearing reports, I learned it was seen all over the area.

That Sound of an Oncoming Train. . .

The weather man said afterward that the storm had 100-mph winds. When that horrible onrushing-train sound that means a tornado arrived and persisted about 7:45 p.m. last night, I took cover in my 5 x 4.5-foot bathroom, with my laptop and phone. That's probably how the Apocalypse will find me: Huddled in the can, not with family photos or a bankbook, but with the tools of my trade.

Tornadoes touched down east and north of here, wrecking 100 houses, but no one died. The storm came in darkness and left in darkness, so dawn was everyone's first chance to see the damage. The roaring winds tore off the top of the tallest and oldest cedar on the cliff edge behind my house. This exposed the tree's rosy  heartwood, both sad and very beautiful. The brave tree, to its last moment, kept the house safe. Now we must face future storms without it.

Storm Damage

This is not Joplin, far from it; it's home. Top of a tree torn off last night about 3 a.m. and fallen into the yard. I was asleep, then woken by roaring winds. Took glasses and moved to the living room which has fewer windows, and where I have my emergency bag all packed, and fell asleep there. Didn't hear this tear, nor did I hear it fall, not 15 feet from the house. I'm sitting tight waiting for a set of three consecutive tornadic storms to pass through within the next two hours; they promise that this is among the last of them tearing up Missouri from west to east. Everybody's jumpy and worried during this amazingly bad tornado season.

Wasps in Between

These wasps were born trapped between window glass that's indoors and plastic that is stretched in a frame that serves as an outside storm window. The indoor window -- original to the Divine cabin -- is sealed shut. The outdoor window can't be reached, at least by me. I could pierce the plastic and free these anxious wasps -- not because I like them; they have ancestors and cousins who have stung me when I dint deserve it -- but because their 11 expired bodies will lie between those windows where I'll have to look at 'em.

Hail, Hail

Screwy late-April weather, even for the Midwest: 75 degrees. Then 35 degrees overnight. Then sunny. Then big clouds. Then pea-sized hail (pictured, in the grass); within 10 minutes it's sunny and all gone. Now 60 degrees, partly cloudy, with strong chilly wind. Never a dull moment.

Did We Dream This?

Took this at 9:00 a.m. 100 yards up the road.