One of the happiest memories I have from my childhood is of storms. Thunderstorms, loud and booming did something to my family. The garage door went up and we all piled onto the abandoned third seat from the Suburban, waiting for the show.
I remember the scent of rain always came first, the trees bent and bushes swayed. The sky took on a frightening gray and I would’ve been scared if I were alone. But I wasn’t. This was one thing that we all did together, that nobody complained about. I don’t even think we ever thought about it – we just knew that if there was a good storm coming, to meet in the garage.
Our feet got wet and sometimes more, but we hooted and hollered as the lightening came near. They told me it was God bowling, and every flash in the sky was his strike. I didn’t really believe it, but I was in awe nonetheless. Whatever made it happen, was good.
And the rains came and we inhaled deep, we splashed in nearby puddles and cuddled when chilled. Thunderstorms make me so happy, even now.
It’s storming a good Georgia storm now, and my trees are a’swayin’ and my windowsills are damp with the wind-driven rain. The scent is exactly as I remember, fresh and acrid and clean and I sense a bit of change on the air.
Storms are like turning points, blowing away the old, making room for the new, nurturing what’s sown. Echo runs from the thunder, misunderstanding. But I open the windows and turn out the lights, to see it more clearly. To inhale it with every sense I have at my disposal. The power, the natural progression of things is most evident now. I’m a buzz with it, I’m reveling. I hope for more.
