Thirty Seconds of Hurricane

So, like some of the more Pacific Northwest, Moscow has been a sauna this week--a roiling, greasy, dusty and muggy vat of lethargy plus desire for rain. And I don't want to hear anything from the Southerners among us. We Yankees aren't used to this. We live in a peaceful oscillation between warmth and coolness with only occasional dots of precipitation, only sporadic acquaintance with the elements. When we suffer from muggy, we really suffer.

Tonight, we had thirty seconds of hurricane, and our sauna busted wide open. We'd been watching the cloud--high and promising and dark, full, suggestive of thunder. Lewis was still in the tub when all of a sudden it struck, and let me just tell you, that wind was awesome. There was a tremendous crashing noise as it whacked the side of the house, and answering crashes from within as lamps and things went flying. It ripped out a couple of screens, tore several large arms off the big willow back of our house, flew my magazines off the window ledge, flattened everything, knocked over the basil bush. Lewis came hauling out of the tub, wrapped in a towel, and started praying aloud that the wind wouldn't kill us. Peter and Mona were outside and Peter says he could see the giant ball of cloud and dust rolling up the street in front of the wind and then Mona's hair flattened out and everything started to fall over.

But as quickly as it came, it left, and then we got thunder and lightning for about an hour, and the most lovely downpour. It should be cooler for the rest of the week.