I stomped through the field of thistles, swearing under my breath, trying to balance fence posts in one hand and the reel of fence in the other. The weeds were taller than I was and I couldn't tell where I'd stuck the last post in. I thought about tromping back and checking. To hell with that—I stepped a post in and strung the fence through it. The fence would just have to be crooked.

A mosquito whined in my ear. I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore it. The reel I was pulling suddenly caught, and stopped. I looked down and saw it had screwed up for the fifth time that night—the poly-twine had slipped off the reel, ensnaring itself around the outside.

I looked up at the darkening sky and slowly counted to five. It would take me ten minutes to undo that tangled mess. Joy to the world. Fifteen minutes later I reached the cross fence and gladly tied my line to it. I worked my way back through the thistles, untied the bluff line, letting the cows go into the pasture, and gladly retreated back towards the safety of the house.

I slipped my boots off in the mudroom and walked into the kitchen. My sister Kate was sprawled out on the couch with a book, so I sank into a chair at the table. She glanced up from her paperback and looked me over.

"What took you so long?"

"Everything."

She looked down at my legs. They were red and scratched from the thistles. "You should have worn pants."

I elected to ignore that comment. "Where's Mom?"

"Garden." She had returned her attention back to her book.

"Do you know where Dad is?" This time she just shrugged her shoulders. I sighed. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Can't." She said, without taking her eyes off the page. "Dad hasn't gotten the water working yet."

I groaned. The water had mysteriously stopped working early that day, I'd completely forgotten. There wasn't a chance dad could have gotten it fixed—not with all the hay that needed baled and the threat of rain heavy in the air.

I glanced back at Kate. "Why aren't you helping him pick up bales?"

"The axel on the wagon broke."

Mom came in through the front door, her hands caked with mud. "It's thundering, shouldn't one of you be helping your dad?"

Kate and I shared a look. "Probably."

Mom scowled, first at us and then at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. "I'm calling someone about the water tomorrow." She turned back to us. "Why haven't you girls learned how to fix this stuff?"

Kate shrugged. "I don't know."

I had a better answer. "You should have had a boy."

"I should have had girls who learned how to fix stuff."

At that, Kate shut her book and gave an exaggerated yawn. "I think I'm going to head to bed." Trust Kate to get out of a conversation like this.

As Kate retreated up the stairs, Mom turned on me. "Did you remember to turn the fence back on?"

I was already heading towards the door. “Of course I remembered…” I paused, “I’m just gonna go double check.” I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to get out of the house…Mom would probably decide we could wash the dishes with rain water in the mood she was in.

“Don’t get struck by lightning.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be on the barn roof so I can see it coming.”

I walked across the back porch, not exactly sure where I was going. Not to the barn roof.

“Have you checked the radar lately? Is it going to rain?” Dad was walking across the yard towards the house.

I shrugged. “Haven’t checked. Mom’s in a mood in a half though…be careful.”

He laughed. “Thanks for the warning. What’s she all worked up about?”

The wind gusted, blowing metal against metal somewhere up by the barn. “The usual—and the fact that the water’s not working…”

“I forgot about that.”

As he drew closer to the house the light from the windows made clear the dirt and grease he was covered in.
“Any luck with the axel?”

He shook his head. “It’ll take me awhile to get it fixed. The hay should be all right as long as it doesn’t pour.”

Rain started to pepper our faces. “You’d better go check the radar before the internet goes out.”

I walked past him, out into the yard. Somebody had mowed it that afternoon and grass stuck to my feet. Rain started to come down harder—I allowed anger to wash over me for an instant—anger at my world of thistles and cows, of hay and axels, of rain and survival.

As quickly as it had come, it left, and I closed my eyes, reveling in the cold drops as they soothed the scratches on my legs and washed away the mud that had accumulated that day. As I stood there, face to the sky, I knew one thing would always hold constant. The axel might break, the hay might get wet, and the weeds might be too tall to see through, but the rain would always come. It would always wash it all away.




Thunder roared, shaking the ground suddenly as lightning ripped across the sky. I retreated a few unwilling steps back towards safety—wishing I could stay in the cool, knowing the house would still be hot and humid. Another crack as a limb tumbled down convinced me. Maybe Dad had gotten the water fixed.

As I opened the screen door, halfheartedly trying to wipe the grass off my feet, raised voices sounded in the kitchen. It seemed like I was just in time for the nightly argument. The door from the mudroom to the kitchen was still shut and I listened in the semi darkness, unwilling to put myself in the middle of another tempest. I looked back out the screen door where the wind and rain were becoming increasingly stronger.