A Morning of Mercy and a Thunder in the Bones
I woke up to something I haven’t heard in weeks—thunder rolling softly in the distance. Not the hard crash of a sudden summer storm, but the kind that groans low over the hills like a warning yawn. I stepped out on the porch, coffee in hand, and just stood there in my bare feet, letting the air wrap around me. It smelled of earth and ozone and hope.
After the blistering heat wave earlier this month—days that felt like walking through a hair dryer—this morning was nothing short of a mercy. Still humid, of course. It’s Southeast Oklahoma in late May. But the breeze had a kindness to it that we’ve been sorely needing.
Pre-Storm To-Do List
I hustled through morning chores with one eye on the sky. The goats were restless—animals always sense a change in the weather long before we do. Clover was pacing again, this time not because of fence mischief but because the pressure was shifting. I gave everyone an extra flake of hay and checked the mineral blocks while I was out. I don’t expect a long storm, but if it hits hard, I want everyone settled.
The chickens were all still alive this morning, thank God. After losing two to heatstroke earlier in the week, I’ve been hyper-aware of their behavior and the temperature inside the coop. I added more ventilation yesterday, and we moved the shade cloth to better cover the nesting boxes. Simple things make a big difference when the air feels like soup.
I gathered a dozen eggs—five brown, two white, and the rest that sweet pale blue-green that still makes me smile every time. Natalie would call them “Easter eggs,” and maybe she’s right. They feel like little blessings in a basket.
Harvest and a Hard-Learned Lesson
Before the rain hit, I made a quick pass through the garden to gather what was ready. Snap peas, more lettuce, a few early banana peppers, and a lone zucchini that I swear doubled in size overnight. Those things are sneaky like that.
While picking, I noticed signs of blight on the lower leaves of my heirloom tomatoes. It’s early for it, but we’ve had such swings in temperature and humidity lately, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I pruned what I could and sprayed with a milk solution, hoping to slow it down naturally before it spreads. If I lose those Brandywines, I might just cry.
It’s always humbling, this dance with nature. No matter how much I plan or how many notes I take from last season, something will always go sideways. But that’s part of the beauty, too. It keeps me honest.
Storm Rolling In
By late afternoon, the wind had picked up, and the air turned a strange shade of yellow-gray. You know the one—where the light looks like it’s coming through old glass and every sound gets sharper, like the world’s holding its breath.
I made a quick loop to secure anything that could blow over—the potted herbs by the steps, the tools by the shed, the feed buckets I forgot to bring in yesterday. Eli always says it’s the buckets you forget that turn into missiles. He’s not wrong.
When the first fat drops hit the tin roof, I was back inside with a bowl of leftover roasted chicken and a mason jar of sun tea. I sat by the window and watched the storm roll in over the ridge, thankful for the roof over my head, the food in my belly, and the work of the day behind me.
Evening Reflections
There’s something sacred about storm-watching. It quiets the mind and reminds you that you’re small—and that’s not a bad thing. After a long stretch of relentless sun and sweat and sore shoulders, the rain felt like a benediction.
I lit a candle tonight, partly for ambiance and partly to remind myself that even when the sky goes dark, the light is still something we can choose.
Tomorrow, we’ll assess the damage (if any), stake up whatever the wind knocked down, and go right back to the rhythm of this place. That’s the thing about a homestead—it doesn’t stop for weather or feelings or fatigue. But it does give back, in quiet ways.
Tonight, I’m going to bed with a thankful heart, the sound of rain on the roof, and the comfort of knowing I’ve done what I could today.
From Wister Creek, beneath the storm-washed sky,
Amanda