Lightning zippering cross the sky and thunder gunning like a race car and rain hammering all night long on the tin roof. It was the kind of noise that made any other noise impossible. Earle, he wanted to listen to Death Valley Days, but all we could find on the radio was some Charlottesville preacher going on about 2 Corinthians, so we turned off the set and played pinochle. Then I put Earle and Janey to bed. I told ’em the “Tale of the Lover Who Feigned Himself a Thief,” and they went right off, and I had a mind to clean dishes, but I went off, too. The rain pushed through sometime in the night, but it give the air a good scrubbing. The next morning, I put on a sweater and set on the front porch with a mug of coffee, watching the fog yawn off the mountains. It’s a good time of year in Walnut Ridge. Forsythia blooming by the fence. Pink azaleas budding out of the forests. Robins and bluebirds. I set watching a spell. Then, out of habit, I give the station a once-over. Something was wrong.
