We live in the lightning capital of the world. Hush. Don’t argue with me. I’m not in the mood.
We live in the lightning capital of the world.
When summer arrives in the Central Florida, lung sucking heat arrives with it. Humidity smacks you in the face like a hammer. The will to live dwindles.
However . . . as sure as the sun rises, thunder storms (storms full of thunder) arrive with the brain smashing heat. In the afternoon, the heat rises, the skies lower, black clouds boil across the sky. Various farm animals race for shelter.
The air takes on a pregnant, expectant quality: breathless and heavy. Wind races ahead of the rain, trashing trees and hairdos.
And then the pregnant sky’s water breaks. Bam! With the rain comes the lightning.
In Florida, we learn early on to count between the flash and the explosion: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi . . .
Each Mississippi equals a mile, or that’s the rumor.
Expect when you can’t even get the “M” out of your mouth before the freaking fireball is cracking the concrete of the back patio. Lightning is fast, sure, and total. I know. I’ve seen it.
My husband and I watched a recent storm thrash its way across the yard, standing on our back covered porch. Ratty tree limbs crashed to the ground. Leaves whipped in tiny tornado swirls. I stood in water up to my neck . . . okay . . . okay maybe not my neck, but it was damp under my bare feet. I wrapped myself more tightly in my leopard print bathrobe.
Lighting blazed behind the barn, once and then again.
“Wow, that was close . . .” I began as a flash of light ballooned into a freaking fireball straight in front of us. The thunder did a good, good job of imitating mortar fire from an invading militia.
Explosion joined screaming mixed with shouting.
“Lightning just hit that tree,” my husband (Captain Obvious) observed.
I screamed some more and ran for the kitchen door. It was locked. Shouting, I started pounding on the kitchen door. “It’s locked. Let me in,” I howled, “let me in.”
Captain Obvious spit out, “Who are you yelling for? No one is in there. We are out here. You’re ridiculous.”
“Why do you always lock me out?” I countered. “I’m the only robber you ever lock out.” Howls and nuttiness mixed in my brain with visions of flaming fireballs. “I have no shoes on. You have shoes on.”
“You’re crazy. It’s too late.”
And it was true. The fireball had exploded against the Maple tree, the lightning traveling through its roots under the patio, cracking the concrete in three places and popping several pavers up and out of their spots.
And that’s how I know we live in the lightning capital of the world. It tried to blow us up but only got the patio.
Linda (Lightning Rod) Zern
