In a Flash

It’s late July, monsoon in Colorado. An evening thunderstorm is rolling through, and it’s the kind that speaks every five seconds. Not powerful, not threatening, but a low, consistent growl. It is comforting. Like Heaven’s taiko the sound rolls through me as rhythm’s meditation. Lightning brightens the sky repeatedly and I habitually count the number of seconds between the flash and the rumble. There is no difference as the storm spills over into itself.

I grew up in Vermont where summer electrical storms were magnificent. I didn’t know it at the time – I was scared silly of them. In the Dog Days when the rumblings and flashings would start after dark I’d dash to my bedroom, pull the sheets over my head and hope the lightning didn’t find me. One night my Dad, exasperated with my ongoing fear, took me out on the back porch just as a storm was starting, opened an umbrella and draped it over our knees then sat with me through the tempest explaining everything as it occurred. I remained frozen with terror the entire time, choking on my hoarse whispers asking to be allowed back into the safety of house, the bedroom, and magic sheets. It was an eternal battle.

I was led to believe that lightning would hunt me out like a heat-seeking missile, convinced that if I moved I’d be found out and struck by one of Zeus’s bolts. Being in water, whether a shower, a bath, or a pond, was unthinkable. Anything electrical needed to be shut off, better yet unplugged. Being outside anywhere was moronic and the idea was rejected with greatest gravity. So we sat still and waited for the storm to pass, as if Godzilla were on a killing streak of unsuspecting victims.

My orange tabby Harpo never liked thunderstorms, either. At the earliest hint of them he’d crawl under the futon and remain there until the softest rattling of thunder was long passed or I’d bring out tuna treats. Mind you, he was a tremendous hunter and man’s man, but for some reason he never came to terms with this portion of nature’s feast. He died a man’s man as well, succumbing to the complications of diabetes on his favorite food day, Thanksgiving. I held him through the last of his own thundering death-rattle.

The kittens (I use the term loosely – they are now eight years old) never used to be bothered by thunderstorms. Lately, though, Mr. Bill, the brown tabby, has taken up where Harpo left off. He crawls nervously under the futon and when the fireworks go full blast he hugs the wall, tail tucked away, eyes widened and ears so alert they might be fuzzy triangular lightning rods. Once over, he’ll crawl into my lap hoping for some calm, some scritches, and maybe some treats. It takes a bit to work his shivers out.

There’s a reason our basic instincts charge full bore to this level of fear; the same reason animals seek shelter from looming electrical might. Lightning kills. The average flash of lightning will power a 100-watt light bulb for three months. The air surrounding a lightning strike is hotter than the sun’s surface at 6000 C/11,000 F. Lightning has favorite sites that it can hit multiple times during one storm. Rubber soled shoes and tires offer no protection from lightning strikes. Supercells and extreme winds develop funnel clouds and we all know where Dorothy ended up on that one.

The power of the elements, like the elemental outdoors, reminds us of our place in the grand scheme of things. We are insignificant, at best, and when we thumb our noses at these important places we almost always get a good swift whomp upside the haid. And that hurts.

We can choose to use it, lose it, or be abused by it. How we treat the natural world is how we treat each other.