And, the Thunder Rolls

Subtle Reminders of Mortality

And, the Thunder Rolls

“Let’s go see where it rained!”

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            There are huge gaping holes that were once filled with the verbal history of storm experiences.

            Certainly, we see the images on the tube about storm events with dire predictions of certain mass extinctions and urban scat plant disruptions, but fewer and fewer first hand accounts of the scintillating and raw encounter with life and death standoffs with storms are shared. Indeed, most of modern citizenry sits out such events under the cover of a structure and therein lies the problem.

            To be properly witnessed and shared, the scene needs to be set 15 miles from the nearest roof, with no slicker tied behind your cantle, and a little pony that has entered life in the face of permanent drought which implies less first-hand experience than his rider.

            It is then that words can be crafted.

            Subtle Reminders of Mortality

            Grandpa’, Uncle Roy and Uncle Hap must be immortalized in their verbal recollections of storm events. They were not learned men as arrayed against a text book, but they were masters at living lives under threatening western skies. They were mesmerized by storms. Their existence was predicated on those storms.

            It was only through actual experience that witnessing static electricity playing across the horns and backs of a hot and densely packed herd of cattle could be remembered and shared. The scene was set as the tightly bunched steers were driven around a rocky outcropping and against a sheer bluff. The heat was stifling, and the humidity was oppressive as thunder rolled from the dark and angry clouds forming overhead. Every cowboy was wide eyed with the expectation that the herd would run. Already drenched in sweat, few of the riders even thought to pull their slickers as the storm hit. It was the arrival of the rain, though, that actually helped them hold the tired herd. For a minute, lightning flashed ever more intensely, and the anxiety was elevated yet higher, but, soon, the rain became steady. Man and beast shrank into as much of a defensive posture as they could and the soft blue hue of the static electricity dissipated. Every living being got through.

            Humor was always lingering.

            There was the story of the fellow who grabbed a bucket and put it on his head as a storm hit. He hadn’t gone 100 feet when eyewitness accounts swear that he was struck by lightning. The only damage in the strike was the bucket that skipped away as if it had been shot.

            There were flood crossings by horseback. My dad tells stories of how Grandpa’ taught him to allow himself to be lifted out of the saddle only to lay parallel and over the horse. The only witness to that I ever saw was one day on the Mangus when cars were stopping to watch a big flood. It was raging and out from under the bank in front of us a horseman appeared. The horse was swimming by the time we had line of sight.

            The crowd was oohing and ahhing.

I knew immediately who it was. I even knew the horse. It was my Grandpa’ on old Jack crossing without any acknowledgement of a crowd gathering up on the road above him. He was simply going home having been caught on the east side of highway when the flood came down.

            In another account, the outcome was more serious. In a repair job turned accident, Uncle Hap had been caught under the blade of a dozer. As usual, he was alone. He had tried to dig himself out, but strength and conscious thought and rationale were quickly waning. Finally, he heard what he thought was the Mangus coming down from the storm up the country. Where he was he would be inundated in the flood and he would surely drown.

In his condition, he actually found that to be a darkly, comforting alternative. He was that close to collapse. What he was hearing, though, was the sound of a vehicle approaching. The story ends with his rescue before any flood arrived. His ending remarks were always couched in a big smile and his chuckle, but his predicament had been immense.

Of course, there was the day that Grandpa’ and Bill McMillen were struck by lightning. They had actually touched stirrups riding along discussing how they were going to hold the herd in the approaching storm. When Grandpa’ came to, Jerome was getting up and trying to shake the chaos and confusion from his brain.

Shaking the same calamity from his own brain, Grandpa’ saw that Bill was folded up under the little gray horse he had been riding. The horse was dead.

The cowboys pulled Bill free, and immediately concentrated on him. After a full five minutes without response, the cowboys silently moved away and started to unsaddle the little gray.

“One more try,” Grandpa told himself.

With a big inhalation, Bill opened wide his eye and a collective, great gasp was heard! With remnants of chewing tobacco still in his mouth, his apparent first thought was offered.

 “Albert, where can I spit?”

“Cowboy, anywhere you want!”

Let’s go see where it rained!”

Indeed, we savored any and all rainstorms. At a time when TV was not yet even a thought, our surroundings were our main source of entertainment.

“Let’s go see where it rained.”

Into to the pickup we would pile and off we’d go. Nobody seems to have any concept of that today, but what a wonderful experience it was. The smell of those New Mexico rains, the cheer of our elders, and the comradery with our cousins is still and so profoundly remembered.

I’d trade for it in a heartbeat. In fact, if it rains today, let’s go get in the pickup and see where it rained!

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “I pray it is a big one!”