Move Over Ken Barlow.

I know, I've got a lot of catching up to do. I've been ill this week. About twice a year I get this thing, it's called The Throat Slasher. And that's what it feels like, until it gets to my lungs. Then it's called The Frog Breather.

In the last three weeks, we've gotten maybe three drops of rain. Which makes for a somewhat crabby gardener. But, despite the lack of precipitation, the garden still looks decent, and so do the weeds (evil).

Dry patches aside, I've been learning that one of the great advantages of living on the prairie is the ability to see for about a hundred miles in every direction. Here is a good example: A couple of months ago, Dan and I remarked on the towering thunder clouds to the east. Little did we know, those were the storms that spawned tornadoes that did dances in Hugo.

Today, Ana and I awoke to muggy weather and stormy skies. I did my "hooray for severe weather!" dance (and those who know me know it is a joyful dance.) I petted my tomatoes and caressed my beets, explaining that it wouldn't be long now.

The remainder of the day was spent doing one of two things. One: watching as huge storms pouring deluges of glorious rain fall apart right before they got to us. The other: Witnessing the splendor and electricity of a new thunderstorm swollen with rain forming just beyond us.

And never seeing a drop of rain land within a mile of our garden.

At least we got to see some cool storms.

And before I go set up the sprinklers, here's one for Dad and Mary.