Same Song.

Storms trying to rumble in from the northeast again this afternoon -- on the same line as the storms last night that tried to light the world on fire, and almost succeeded. Lightning hit the refinery tanks out 40 and started a good-sized fire that closed the highway in both directions. Or so says the news, anyway. We were not there to see it. We were holed up here with all animals and the boy and waiting for lightning to hit our own reserves. It was a loud, beautiful storm, scary in exactly the right ways and amounts. We had candles at the ready. We were hunkered down. And: if this gets any throatier here in the next few minutes, I'll have to go haul AMR from the shower, go find the candles again, get ready again. This is summer on the Piedmont. I've tried to explain what I can of it to Edward. He reacts to this news much the same way he reacts to all other news. There are only two real reactions—sleeping and gastrointestinal. New this week to an infant near you, though, is a nascent third reaction: thoughtful looking around the room. I suspect that what he's thinking about is which of the other two reactions might be most appropriate for a given piece of news, but still: never a dull moment around here. Always some little something lighting up the radar. Or the interstate.

At eleven o'clock this morning there was no substantial difference between the temperature in the shade of the porch and the temperature in the sun-broiled heat of the front walk. We are, friends and fans of weather, a bit humid around here. We are hot as a sleeping newborn. We are in a weather pattern that holds.