Watching Thunderstorms

Springtime drew my family outdoors after a cold winter. March brought winds and, for me, kite flying—oftentimes with a homemade kite my father constructed out of twigs, newspaper, a strip of rag, and twine. Though my kites usually ended up tangled in treetops or dangling from power lines, the exhilaration was worth the struggle of tugging, running, and waiting for the perfect gust to lift it into the air.

In spring my mother planted flower beds with snapdragons, marigolds, and zinnias. My older brother Steve and the neighborhood boys gathered for boisterous baseball games in our lower field. At night, my father and I sat on the front porch and listened to the high-pitched chorus of tree frogs and echoing song of whip-poor-wills. We spied the first lightning bugs flickering in the darkness, and in the distance, we heard church chimes playing familiar Baptist hymns.

Spring and summer also brought thunderstorms. My father loved to watch these storms brewing—clouds boiling and darkening and the flash of lightning that signaled the downpour that was ahead. While my mother and I rushed to snatch clothes off the backyard clothesline before they got soaked from the rain, my father walked around in our yard, looking up and savoring the cool wind that rustled the leaves.

“You better get out of the storm,” my mother warned him, though we knew his mind was absorbed in the beauty of the clouds’ changing hues—white to gray to black. Even as raindrops started to fall, he was in no hurry to seek shelter. Finally, when rain fell steadily, he came onto our front porch.

He sat in his chair and I joined him, settling in the glider, while lightning streaked across the sky and thunder rumbled and shook the earth.

While we sat there, my mother came to the front screen door.

“You better come on in the house,” she urged me.

“I will in a little while,” I said, though I knew I would wait out the storm with my father.

Occasionally Steve joined us on the front porch, and he and I sorted through his collection of baseball coins—Mickey Mantle, Sandy Koufax, Brooks Robinson, and other all stars of the 1960s. Sometimes I pulled out my harmonica and practiced “Red River Valley” or “Long, Long Ago.” But mostly I sat quietly and observed the lightning display that my father so clearly enjoyed.

As my father grew older he continued to enjoy watching thunderstorms. It seemed to me that he just waited until the sky grew dark so he could head for the yard. I had grown older, too, and more fearful. Now it was my turn to warn, “You better get out of the storm. You might get struck by lightning.” After all, we lived in Western North Carolina, and in McDowell County during our violent thunderstorms, I had witnessed transformers exploding like fireworks and trees being struck and split by lightning. We had endured numerous power outages. My fear was real when I walked into the yard, the trees and grass eerily fluorescent green, to coax him inside to safety.

The National Weather Service has stated that North Carolina has one of the highest rates of lightning deaths in the country (some say the third highest in the U.S. between 1959 and 2017). I’ve read that the majority of lightning strikes in North Carolina occur in June, July, and August.

Yet, despite my knowing these sobering statistics, something has changed in me. I don’t know if it’s because I watched my father all those spring and summer days throughout my early years, or if it’s something instinctual in me that’s come to surface. In any case, now, as sure as the clouds darken, the breeze picks up, and thunder rumbles in the distance, I head outside to my yard. I walk around, my eyes on the sky, watching and waiting. As the storm brews, I feel a sense of freedom and a kind of exciting danger.

Like my father, I am in no hurry to go inside.