It’s Raining, It’s Pouring…


One-one thousand,two-one thousand,three-one thousand…

I can’t wait for the approaching thunderstorm to hit. Whenever I get the opportunity, I sit in my family room and listen for thunder and look for the flash of light that signifies one of my favorite shows sponsored by Mother Nature.

My heart beats faster and I feel like a kid on Christmas morning. I mute the music on the stereo (you know-the box that you turn on and  hear a variety of music through old speakers) and focus on listening for the sound of the thunder, from the first rumble all the way through to its end. I stare out the tall windows searching the sky for that sliver of light that magically appears, then disappears as quickly.

I love storms.

I have a very healthy respect for weather. I love watching Storm Chasers and am envious of the folks that are in the souped-up storm chasing vehicle when they are out stalking a dangerous weather event. Truth be told, I would be too terrified to ever participate if I got the chance, so I live vicariously through those on the television shows. I wish I had the guts to be a full-time storm chaser, but this was not meant to be.

When a storm is predicted, I will turn on the weather channel and watch the radar in real-time. Yes, my inner (or not so inner) geek is showing, but I can’t help myself. The knowledge that something so powerful and completely out of my control is coming to get me is thrilling.

My favorite storms are those that bear a distinct front. I’m as giddy as a teenager in love when I see a dark blue line of horizontal shelf clouds aggressively advancing towards me. It feels like a long-awaited online order that I eagerly await at my front door. As I have the good fortune of living directly next to a large area of open land, when I hear the first mention of possible bad weather, I am out in my yard looking to the west. I will stand patiently to watch and listen, feeling gutsy when lightning flashes and I’m standing out in the yard.

When the first few seconds of rain start to fall, I retreat back into the house and sit down with a book. The rain hits the glass of the windows in diagonal patterns, like a wallpaper,the patio pavers begin to take on a darker hue, and the unmulched dirt turns to mud. The rain falls harder, now making the distinctive noise that heavy rain makes. It seems like the grass is greener in the twenty minutes since it actually started to rain, and that the trees have grown just a little taller.

The excitement of the oncoming weather, the comfort of sounds recognized since childhood, and the renewal of dormant landscaping are all factors in my love of a good spring thunderstorm.

I hope that there’s another one on the way.


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