We had quite a storm yesterday at candle lighting. The wind howled like Pauline Medbery when she had the twins last summer. Glory be! I never heard a woman pitch a conniption fit like that and with good reason. Those boys were as big as bear cubs.
The rain poured down on our little clapboard house so fierce, I swore we'd be washed away come morning. Pa went out to inspect the damage and came across Postmaster Reeves walking down the lane to town. His barn was stuck by a bolt of lightning and lost 11 head of horses. I reckon the Lord was none to pleased with his recent dealings. The scuttlebutt is that he's been sending letters to a certain lady whose husband lately went back East to find work. I've heard tell those missives are hot as a whorehouse on nickel night.
Pa being Simon pure, plans to help the Postmaster get his barn in apple pie order. More than he deserves, I reckon, but it might get our mail to the right places.
