#pandemic reflection

The hail storm came out of nowhere as they do in Colorado in the summertime. I was eight years old or so and my family was visiting friends who had moved to begin a ranching life in Colorado, away from the social life, parties, and country clubs of Pasadena. My older sister and a few others in the group were on horseback. I was deemed too small and was in the Jeep with my parents and Mr and Mrs Dulin. I recall looking at the mountains and meadows that opened up in the valley and then suddenly the sky became very dark and the wind emerged and then came the hail and it was tremendous. I had never seen anything like it, and I’ve never seen anything like it since. Frozen golf balls hit  the jeep; the tin reverberated but withstood the assault.

I remember the concern was for those who were on horseback and how to find some shelter during the storm. The animals were fine; the quarter horses understood the natural world, so the concern was for the children on their backs. The jeep drove ahead to a rancher’s cabin. To my eight-year-old mind the cabin appeared out of nowhere, but I understand now that the Dulins of course knew that it existed and it had probably always been the destination for the afternoon. 

The cabin was like the set of True Grit or some Cohen Brothers western. Worn but sturdy. A table and maybe a remnant of a chair or two. There were rough cupboards or maybe crates attached to the wall and perhaps even an empty tin can. And the calendar. Hanging on a nail, the year was 1930 something. Just like in a movie, a movie I hadn’t yet seen. 

Almost as soon as we arrived at the cabin, the hail storm had moved on. The horses and riders were fine; the only evidence of what had occurred were a few dents on the Jeep.