I find myself amazed at the evolution of a clear blue sky into a dark and ominous storm cell. The colors in the sky and the shapes in the clouds are usually most entrancing in that short calm before the storm. In those moments, I find myself concurrently appreciating the scene and anticipating the next phase. Somehow I manage to find an inherent peace in Mother Nature's turmoil.
This fascination isn't new, I have many childhood and adolescent memories tied to stormy summer days. My dad and I used to open the garage door as a storm rolled in and set up lawn chairs at its edge. We would bring our books, sometimes a newspaper, and sit in companionable silence while we watched and felt the storm around us.
On rainy days, when the thunder and lightning were absent, my brothers and I would ravage the garage for buckets, wheelbarrows, wagons, anything that could hold water. Smaller containers would be placed under downspouts around the perimeter of the house. As a container filled, we would replace it with an empty and relay the rainwater contents to a wheelbarrow. There was no real purpose to this activity besides frolicking in the rain. Although, sometimes we would agree to give the dog a bath in our collection.
And in high school I had a few friends with a habit of driving into parking lots where huge puddles formed, then rushing out of the car to stomp and splash like five-year-olds. If it was nighttime, we'd simply aim the car's headlights in the general vicinity of the best puddles. We'd end up soaked through, laughing until our stomachs ached, and completely jubilant. Clearly I wasn't a particularly rebellious teenager.
So, I no longer have a garage or a yard with downspouts, my dad and brothers live in different states than me, and it's been awhile since I found anyone with a penchant for puddle jumping. Regardless, I still find myself aflutter with anticipation whenever a summer storm starts to roll in.
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