When I was a kid I hated the weatherman. He was the one that told my mother to send me to school carrying a raincoat, a jumper, and gumboots. The predicted rain never came. The weatherman was highly inaccurate; thatâs why my father called him a clown. A chance of showers, a possible storm, probable cold front moving in, it all sounded like guesswork. Worst of all was that my father still trusted the weatherman. He was a farmer who endured nine years of drought, holding on to the farm, believing in the âscienceâ of the weatherman, year after year, the promise of rain, the promise of a good harvest, a good El NiĂąo; only to watch everything destroyed by a sudden hailstorm, a cyclone, or a drought that never ended.
 One evening we were sitting in the kitchen, the meal sparse, the weather hot, dry, the sound of cicadas, the fluttering of moths battering their dusty bodies against the light bulb. We ate in silence, tasteless tinned something.
 That night, after the brief shower of rain had passed us by, the cattle unable to stand, the horses no more than bony skeletons, our family eating donated tinned food, my father shot himself.Â
 No one had taken much notice when he stood up and went out to the shed. He was gone for four minutes, his food going cold, when we heard the sound of the rifle. Scott was first on his feet, running outside to see what had happened. There were two shots. The first one was his faithful dog, a border collie, on her last legs, 14 years old, slowly going blind, arthritis in her legs. We knew she was going to die soon, but not just then. When the first shot went off, we thought of the dog, Patti. Then within 15 seconds came the second shot. It didnât occur to me that my father would shoot Patti, it was even more surprising that he shot himself.
 My younger brother was first to the shed, where we found the bloody body of Patti, quite dead. My mother was following, a fearful moaning coming from her chest, anticipating the disaster. My father sprawled on the concrete floor, two metres from Patti, his head blown away, his body lifeless. We squatted by his body, kneeling in grief and blood. My mother, heedless of the blood, lay her head on his chest.
 As I sat at the feet of my father, I made a solemn promise that I would learn how to predict the weather in advance with accuracy so that no one had to suffer like this again. I made the promise so intensely, so deeply into my inner being, that it was there for life, branded into my soul. My lifeâs work was prescribed, no matter how difficult, how impossible, my path was set, there could be no turning aside. I would do it, no matter what happened.
 website:  https://marcus-clark.blogspot.com/
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