No
one delights in a Midwestern thunder storm more than children. Hot, humid
nights of July and August sent my two older brothers and me out of our stifling
bedrooms and into the upstairs hallway in front of the screened porch.That night, we dragged our pillows behind us and argued as
to whose turn it was to lie in front of the door where we might catch a breeze.
We flopped on the floor thinking a storm might arrive at any moment. Had we
chosen to open the screen door, the mosquitoes would have eaten us. They thrive on young flesh in the humid air
of summer nights. They should be the
state bird of Minnesota.
A scary wind
swept over us followed by a huge crash.
Startled, we snatched up our pillows and ran for our bedrooms. This little sister threw the covers over her
head and waited ‘til the lightning would strike again, lighting the sky, making
the room like daylight. The brothers knew how to count between strikes. They
would begin to count one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand in
a steady cadence and when they arrived at five one-thousand and the lightning
struck again, they knew the center of the storm was five miles from us – or so
they said. Older brothers are often full of blarney. I could not do the math.
When the older boys grew up and left home, I found that some of the facts and
figures they told me years ago were, in fact, true. At five or six years of age, I tried to ignore
them.
A few more scary bangs and a few
more flashes of lightning and then the soothing rain began. I peeked to see
the curtains in my bedroom float gracefully, billowing almost to the ceiling. The elm tree in front
was swaying with the wind, its topmost branches bent and swooped round and
round like a ballerina’s skirt. First had come the warning wind, then the
thunder, then lightning, the rain and then Dad. He came into each room to say
everything was all right and to close each window with a decisive
thump. As long as Dad was in the room I knew everything was okay. He was an "in
charge" Dad.
