One of my most favorite sounds in the world is the low grumbling of a coming thunderstorm.
Something about the tumbling vibrations as the clouds charged with energy slowly rambles across the sky, complete with flashes of hot white lightning, is so soothing to my ears. When I was little, I used to love sitting out on our enclosed porch with my parents during the heat of summer, stripped down to only my diaper, and watching the dark skies with awe and delight as they lumbered by, striking the ground with each bolt.
There was only one time I can remember where the ferocious storms scared me. It was a hot summer afternoon – sometime in either July or August, I think – and I was home alone with my dog, Katie. Katie had always been afraid of thunderstorms. I believe it was either something to do with the noise, or the fact that our old house seemed to shake with every boom. The day was hot and sticky, much like the ones these past few days. Katie and I were sitting on the porch, enjoying what little breeze was floating through the mesh window screens. She was laying down next to my feet, tongue lolling out heavily and all four legs spread out wide. She had received a haircut just a few days before, taking off almost all of her long thick white/black/tan fur and leaving her with maybe a half inch of soft tufts, save her fluffy long tail. Still, the heat was getting to her. I was sitting in one of the old white wicker chairs reading a Wrinkle in Time for the 100th time.
Suddenly, the bright summer skies grew dark and a thunderous BOOM shook the air. In less than 10 seconds, Katie and I were both out of the porch and rushing through the house, unplugging as many electronic devices as I could. Then, I watched as rain pelted the house like Muhammed Ali taking out one of his opponents. The sky lit up in bright flashes, immediately followed by the house shaking in the midst of the after shock. Katie and I ran to what we thought was the safest place in the house: the bottom of the stairs. I wrapped us in an oversized beach towel as we whimpered and cried.
I was barely able to move from that spot when the phone rang. My father’s voice rang out into the air as he went to voicemail, trying to console me and tell me that he was coming home as fast as he could. Katie dug her nose hard into my armpit, pushing me into the steps as she hid her eyes. I remember tears streaming down my face as I crawled to the voice recorder, begging Dad to come home. By the time I reached the phone, Dad had hung up. As quickly as I could, I scrambled back to the safe spot where I had left Katie under the beach towel.
It wasn’t until after the storm had passed when Dad came home. He apologized again and again for leaving me home alone during a frightening experience.
That being said, I think – no, I’d like to believe that something inside me changed a little during that storm. I feel as though something between the lightning and thunder above the house called out to me, waking up a slumbering warrior to stand in arms and become a force in her own right.
Since then, I’ve never been afraid of thunderstorms. I grew to love them and to feel grounded when one comes around. Oftentimes I’ll sleep right through one, as if Nature was singing me a lullaby to calm my restless soul.
But my most favorite part after a particularly bad storm: The way it feels as though the earth, sky, and everything in between has been scrubbed clean from dirt and grime. Sometimes, I even get to see a rainbow.
L.J. LaBree 