“The Sunday When Everyone Raised Hell”
July 13th,1982
They say the weather talks—but on Sunday, July 13th, it screamed. It moaned, cracked, hissed, and growled. And the whole town of Split Rock hollered right back, like a pack of sinners on Judgment Day.
That Sunday began not in peace, but in conflict. Beer drinkers stumbled out of back porches. Whiskey drinkers followed, squinting into a sky. The sky couldn’t decide between fire or frost. Bible thumpers buttoned up their Sunday best only to find it soaked in sweat—or stiff with ice.
Normally, these folks would be separated by buildings, beliefs, and a healthy dose of silence. But not this time. The Earth tilted at just the wrong angle that morning. It mixed them all together—like oil and water in a cracked jar. Something had to give.
It started at sunrise.
Reverend Dellman, god-fearing and mild-mannered, stepped out with his usual coffee and a copy of The Daily Hymnal. He took one look at his back garden and nearly dropped both coffee and songbook.
“Merciful Lord!”
cried, pointing at the silver glint of frost on his tomatoes.
“It’s July! I rebuke thee!”
By mid-morning, the farmers were in full-blown panic mode. It was cold—then suddenly sweltering. Then cold again. Pete Hargis’ chickens laid hard-boiled eggs, and the pigs were either sunburnt or shivering. Mabel over at the diner attempted to fry bacon on the sidewalk. By 10:03, it had flash-frozen solid. The sizzle was replaced by the crack of ice.
Inside the café, the thermostat spun like a roulette wheel. People gave up trying to adjust. Some came out in denim shorts and fur coats. Others in long johns with flip-flops. A few just wrapped themselves in quilts and wandered the streets like dusty prophets.
At noon, the town square transformed into a chaos carnival. The mayor—Bert Franks, known for his enthusiasm and poor timing—grabbed a megaphone and tried to declare order.
“Citizens! Let us embrace the unexpected! I hereby declare this—”
THWACK!
He was cut off by a slushball to the forehead. Then a flying hot dog bun. And then, mysteriously, a snow shovel.
The townspeople laughed, shouted, moaned, and argued. It wasn’t long before someone pulled out a banjo and another hauled out a cooler. The chaos, like the temperature, escalated fast.
At 2:07 p.m., the sky went black—but not from clouds.
Steam fog rolled in so thick it swallowed up everything past arm’s length. Lightning cracked in one corner. A rainbow arched over the feed store. The wind howled in two directions at once. Cows began to moo in protest—one poor soul spontaneously delivered a churned pat of butter. Children screamed. Not in fear, but in delight. Adults followed suit, except their screams were more… existential.
Dogs barked furiously at the sky. One climbed halfway up a tree before realizing dogs weren’t built for altitude.
Then came Miss Lydia.
Quiet librarian. Never cursed. Never shouted. Never late with a book return. That day she marched down Main Street like a thundercloud in sneakers. Her outfit included a pair of galoshes. She wore a tank top that read “Don’t Test Me.” A neon scarf completed the look. These elements only added to the sense that judgment had arrived.
“THIS IS NONSENSE!” she bellowed. “I WANT A HOT-DAMN GOD DAMN-IT!”
The town gasped.
She wasn’t talking about temperature.
She wanted schnapps. On a Sunday.
Bart, who ran The Dusty Jug Saloon, saw an opportunity. He rolled a brand-new bottle of Hot Damn Schnapps down the sidewalk toward her like it was the holy grail. She caught it, popped the cap, took a long pull—and offered it to the goat tied outside the courthouse. The goat accepted.
By then, no one knew if the town had gone to hell or was simply passing through it.
At sunset, the weather made its final move—brutal heat. A wall of humidity as thick as gravy. People peeled off layers and sweated out their differences on the courthouse lawn. A Bluetooth speaker started playing “Ring of Fire.”
No one stopped it.
A spontaneous conga line formed. The sheriff—usually stiff as a shovel handle—joined in, hat and all. No one judged. Everyone was too dizzy from heatstroke or schnapps.
That night, a sudden cool breeze swept in. The stars blinked into view. The town sat still for the first time all day.
On porches. On sidewalks. Some just lay on the grass, sipping iced tea and fanning themselves with church bulletins.
“It was the damnedest Sunday we ever had,” someone whispered.
And nobody disagreed.
From that Sunday on, every July 13th in Split Rock became Raise Hell for the Weather Day. No matter the forecast, folks gathered to scream at the sky, pass a bottle, and laugh at the madness.
Because when nature throws a tantrum, the people of Split Rock know exactly what to do:
Yell right back – Yell right back!
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