Just as my husband cast out a line, a deep rumble sounded in
the east. We looked east to see masses of blue-gray cumulus clouds. Thus far,
it had been a hot, sunny day. There was just enough wind to make it pleasant on
the dock where we sat.
“Looks like
Culver Lake is in for a storm,” I said. That larger lake lies east of us, across
route 206, and, after all, most weather comes from the west. I figured the
storm had bypassed us.
Wrong.
Within
minutes we felt rain drops. My husband reeled in his line and began gathering
things—towels, glasses, the newspaper—to leave the dock.
“We’re
in bathing suits. Are you afraid you’ll get wet?” I asked.
He didn’t
have to answer. I got my answer from the lightening streaked sky. Then huge
drops of rain splattered everywhere. We ran for shelter and watched the trees
bow and shake, the lake churn, and our neighbor’s house disappear in the mist
and gloom.
Ten
minutes later—again from the east—sunshine lit the treetops. The lake, suddenly
back into view, calmed down to reflect a clear blue sky.
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