Well, that was something!
A thunderstorm roared through West Lebanon Saturday like a 15-minute hurricane, or a runaway train, providing the most excitement we’d had since I don’t know when.

I was the hero of the day, according to Dede, who’d been hinting that it was time to plant the perennials and annuals we’d gathered with multiple trips to lawn and garden centers, both chains and locals.

One school of thought held that Saturday would be a fine planting day because it might rain later. I lobbied for Sunday, since the forecast mentioned a chance of thunderstorms (later upgraded to LOOK OUT!)

A storm might rattle the little darlings. And why do it today when I could put it off until tomorrow?

We lined up our lovelies under the katsura tree out front. That would shield them if rain got rambunctious. Little did we know …

Somehow I was able to fit in my afternoon nap. This was good fortune, because I would soon need the few fast-twitch muscles I have left to fire like all get-out.

I’m not sure precisely when the first clap of thunder struck, but it wasn’t the rumbling that made this storm special. The rain started soon after, in buckets, sheets, torrents. It came in tremendous volume, akin to Niagara Falls. “Oh shoot,” I said, or something a little stronger, “I better get those plants in.”

I threw on a raincoat and dashed into the storm. The violence of the wind, water and hail resembled a nor’easter pounding a three-masted schooner, at least as I imagine it. I should have tethered myself to something, but there was no time for that. I thought I heard someone call “Man overboard,’’ but the excitement may have over-stirred my imagination.

I made four or five rescue trips to the beleaguered plants, carrying them in pairs with little regard for my safety. “Holy crap,’’ I said, or something a little stronger. If this wasn’t a microburst, it was microburst-ish.

“Be careful,’’ Dede urged. “Just remember that I love you — and sunflowers,” I responded, or should have.

Anyway, I survived in good health, along with the plants, except for a wee tomato plant I got from the library, which has all sorts of wonders along with books nowadays.

The plant was battered without mercy by the hail — fierce as good-sized pebbles — that left it addled and possessing only three miserable leaves. I will give it sun therapy and see what happens, although the odds for recovery look bleak.

“You saved the day,’’ Dede said. We both knew that if we had planted our lot that morning, it would have been plantmageddon.

When the all-clear sounded, I stepped outside to survey our little world. The katsura had lost at least a quarter of its leaves, as had the ash tree out back. One of our bushes looked like it had received a haircut from a madman.

Several inches of water and assorted detritus covered our street, which has not flooded in the four decades we’ve been here. Road construction enthusiasts should know that our road is paved with permeable material, something the city wanted to test when they tore it up to separate the sewer and storm drains. It hardly holds a puddle.

But this was no ordinary storm. It tested us, and contemporary theories of road design.

As darkness descended, I drove around the block to check for damage, before I remembered that it’s a stupid thing to do. I skedaddled home, scooting around a couple of broken tree hunks.

The next morning I walked and surveyed the carnage in West Lebanon and White River: decapitated tulips, downtrodden daylilies, woebegone hostas. Gates Street in White River Junction took an overnight mud bath. A few local streets had turned briefly into insta-streams. Here and there hail survived the night and resembled the last dregs of a snow pile.

Sadly, at least two fine gardens on our little dead-end street were ravaged by the storm.

Back home, I marveled at something I’d not seen here before. The hail and wind had torn and ripped leaves from a line of tall trees. Dede said the mess looked like something tossed from a blender. I thought it was more like a salad shooter. It covered our cars and the back of our house with something that calls for an entirely new word: leafsplatter.

As in, look at that leafsplatter over there.

The timing was unfortunate, as our yard, street and neighborhood had been looking prettier day by day. Spring was all a-springing. Romantic poets were about to set up shop.

Well, it’s three steps forward and two steps back. Back to work, Mother Nature!

Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.