Soft sprinkles make no sound on their own until they accumulate on the roof and land in an adagio drip. Once combined, they make a muffled thump as they hit the snow piled high under the eave, after sliding off the roof and trickling along the icicles gripping the rain gutter. The wind is a constant companion here on the prairie, and it whisks leaves from their hiding place under the deck. Wet and decomposed, they whirl about at an andante measure. Branches against the barn are the percussion brushes for the unorganized music. Toys half-buried in snow, buckets, hay under a tarp, and puddles created from the melting snow all respond to the rain with a different sound. As I trudge to the barn, the melody of the rain on the tin roof of the coop is a beautiful song by itself, but marries well with the colorful splashes of barnyard noises like a rooster’s crow, bleating goats, and horses. The cleats of my boots bite into the ice-crusted snow, crushing the once soft blanket of white that lies beneath, and the freezing rain pricks my face like needles. I rush through chores to get back to the house to a hot pot of coffee and watch the storm from the window. The grandfather clock I stand near while watching this show echoes in my head like a metronome. The symphony of instruments outside isn't keeping time. The shower is falling with an urgency now, unloading the water-laden clouds with a moderato gusto, allegro, then the maestro gives the command and PRESTO! The deluge is a deafening roar like an audience on its feet at the end of a piece performed by Mozart himself. The recently plowed driveway is now turning to a thick slush. It is suddenly silent, and I see water seeping in under the dining room door.

That’s what I think of when I think of NLHG. We don’t just show up for the good stuff. We show up when it’s hard, when it's cold and snowy. When someone needs a hand. We’re not afraid to shovel, push, or stay a little longer.