The rains continued throughout the Maine summer. As in the spring, there were the vast, wet, but undramatic systems that moved through Gorham like a slow train. But there were also the brief thunderstorms whose violence rivaled anything I ever experienced in the Southwest, although a violence somewhat cushioned by all the vegetation. After a calm, sunny morning and early afternoon, during which I might have guided our newly-acquired self-propelled rotary mower over our entire lawn, I’d take a hot shower and repair to our front porch, where I’d sip a cold drink. Then, a breeze would arrive from some indeterminant direction, creating a foamy sibilance in the leafy crowns of the huge maples in our front yard. I’d hear a sky-crumpling shudder of thunder. Yes, a thunderstorm was soon to arrive, but from where?
In the desert Southwest, one could see storms approaching from miles away. Dramatic storms approached our heavily-wooded Gorham neighborhood like a low-flying blimp might approach a man in a closet with its door ajar. But arrive the storm would, bringing more thunder. And lightning. As in the Southwest, the harder the downpour, the more one could expect a bolt of lightning and heart-stopping crack of thunder: that seemingly incompatible mixture of fire and water. The torrent would enclose our property, overflow our gutters, send water vomiting from the drainpipes, and set the creeks in our neighborhood to temporarily singing.