As noted two years ago, on 3 July, 2014: For a few years the hurricane season never turned up. A tropical depression far out west of Cape Verde, a storm drenching Guatemala or Cancun in the Gulf basin, but nothing here in America.
This year, as Americans repaired to their Independence Day barbecue grills, a crazy early storm formed off Florida’s east coast. Only North Carolina and its outer banks are evacuated so besides overwrought news TV, most of the country remains sanguine.
Here in our mountains the effects are profound and lovely.
Once in a while there is a hurricane nearby but not close enough to storm on us. Its signal effect is to draw all the moisture out of the air and toward the storm, leaving us, a thousand miles west of the storm, with tree-ruffling breezes and shiny, concentrated, brilliant skies.
Our beautiful mountains.
Trees sway and sweep up with the breeze so patches of the hillside turn pale with the lighter green of the leaves’ undersides. The smile of a moon darts between clouds along with planes too far up in the sky to hear. We watch as they cross in front of us so they can land pointing east in Atlanta, two and a half hours away by road.
If we want to stay outside past dark tonight, Thursday, July 3rd, we’ll need long pants and footwear against the chill. This is why we love our mountains. On July 3rd, way down south in Georgia.