Natural fireworks

For as long as I can remember I’ve watched thunderstorms unfold. The giant windows and mobile shelter of a car make it my favorite viewing arena. My mom always told us kids the rubber in the tires grounded the vehicle and protected us from lightening. I think she just wanted us to enjoy the show. She shared her fascination with the sky, staging fire drills to get us outside to see falling stars or Aurora Borealis.

We would drive to the top of the hill town outskirts where you could see all the city lights below and watch the lightening bolts trump a century of manmade electricity in a flash. Once we witnessed the entire village’s power fail. When we got home she sent my brother and I on silent, stealthy, and blind secret missions to recover candles and matches. We’d watch as she lit the first stick and her olive toned face illuminated like a pumpkin; when the candles were lit, usually only one match for a half dozen or so –mom was fast– she contorted her face and made an exaggerated huff as if she were blowing out a bunch of birthday candles. She’s 47 now.

As I write the hail knocks on windows. Nature’s not timid; she knows how to make an entrance and how to entrance. Thunder soothes my weary soul. It used to wake me up with always a gentle nudge, and I’d do my best to stay awake and keep my weather eyes open, but there some storm magic that brings out the best in rest. Now that I’m older and waking me resembles raising the dead, I sometimes stay up on rumored stormy nights, as mom does to see meteor showers or shy planets. But once I listen to the wind play the symbols and the thunder summons drums slumber absconds with me. Even during the most violent crashes I feel calm. Suddenly death by lightening bolt doesn’t seem so ominous; there are worse ways to go. And somehow “how’s the weather?” doesn’t seem so shallow.