Cloudsplitting

Pancake's dad never stared at goats as far as I know, but he has split clouds. Pancake's dad, like French's dad, always sat on the front porch. Sweaty, Pancake, French and I were all playing a very chippy game of basketball. A lot of knees and elbows were smacking around. (French liked to play tackle basketball.) Bruce Fish was sitting on the porch, as well, and he called out to us: "Lads finish your game...rain's a coming".

There was this huge anvil shaped cloud coming down from the valley. Pancake's dad got up and said: "Don't worry about it boys; keep playing". He stood at the end of the driveway with his hand choppping like he was at a Cleveland Indians Game. He was concentrating hard, and sweating worse than Sweaty.

We all stopped playing. The basketball rolled down into the deep ditch. The cloud slowly started to split in half and drift off into the east and west.

French said: "How in the sweet fuck?"

Pancake's dad let us in on the secret:

"I just imagine a huge hand chopping, a huge hand of air, but strong, solid, but air. I've done it a hundred times. I'll split clouds for roofers, for a small fee."

Bruce Fish asked him what else he could do.

"I can stop my bladder on a cross country long haul in my rig and I can see potholes and rabbits miles ahead. Nuff about that. I split that cloud so you can play. Don't you little bastards waste my effort".

I climbed down the ditch to retrieve our ball.