It has been a long, hot, dry spell in the North of Texas. Not just for a week, or a month, but we've all watched as stock ponds have shrivelled up to nothing, and as the "river" than runs across the highway has become little more than a series of marshes and puddles that have been interconnected, only to share commonality when the rain falls heavily and they flow again. This has happened gradually over decades, and the area's pretty much as dry as a desert. It was this tinderbox that caused the wildfires in March and April to ignite, and have had us under a burn ban for the past few months.

Tuesday, we received blessed relief. The streets flowed with water in the city nearest us, even as rain was light back "in town". Long dormant creek beds rushed past overflowing to hold the water as it rolled off in torrents through the storm channels. Even though we were still well below normal for the year, it was truly exciting to see water again, and in such large quantities, especially since the end of June put us past the "thunderstorm season", and into what is traditionally the dry part of the year.

Yesterday, the rains continued. In Amarillo, three inches fell, bringing them up to two inches less than normal. But back in our town, very little rain fell. Just a light sprinkling, nothing unusual. Though we were grateful for the cooling relief from the high temperatures, we really didn't think much of it.

That is, until about 7:00, when we were urged to head down to the river. The rain was localized in this particular storm, and somewhere upriver, someone had received a whole lot of rain. Riverbeds that were dry and hard only 48 hours ago were flowing past their banks with water, rushing downwards towards the Red River and eventually the Mississippi. As the river flowed, people from all over the community congregated on the bridge to watch the river flow past. One child scampered about on the banks, which had only recently been higher ground, hunting frogs, which he dutifully clubbed to death with a brutality that would make PETA shudder. Children leaned over the railings with parents standing nearby, urging them away and holding their breath out of fear they would go too near and over the edge. Cameras were flourished as if we were watching the arrival of a major celebrity, and the bridge was nearly impassable with traffic, almost unthinkably bizarre considering the small size of our community.

We headed back to our homes knowing the water would recede and that all would get back to normal. But the mere sight of water, and in abundance, encouraged us in a way that only someone who is living in perpetually dry conditions can know. For only the second night in the past six months, the volunteer firefighters among us went to sleep knowing that the chances of being called out on a fire call, at least, were minimal.