Counting on the Thunder

copyright 2005 Dale Hansen - no reproduction without permission

“Thousand one, thousand two thousand three, thousand four, thousand five, thousand six …”

I counted the time between the flash of light and the thunder. I knew there was some sort of mathematical formula with the speed of sound that could tell me how far off the thunder was, but I was six years old, mathematically inept and scared.

In my little part of Minnesota, tornados weren’t uncommon. I had once seen a tornado in the far distance, but I have never been through one. Still, when you’re six years old and it’s the middle of the night, ALL storms are tornadoes, hurricanes, typhoons and floods.

I had just moved into the room at the far end of the house too, and my parent’s bedroom was ALL THE WAY to the other end. There was no way I was going to cross that in the middle of what my six year old mind convinced me had to be the greatest storm ever known to man!

“Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three, thousand four, thousand five….” Ok, that one was a little closer. It was the first time I could remember that I was close enough to hear the beginning of the thunder, like the sound of God ripping a Kleenex.

Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three … “ Ok, they were getting closer. The pounding rain was coming down in a single wall of water. Even in the intense glow of the curtains, backlit with the pure white light from the flashes of lighting, I couldn’t have seen anything in the back yard - the rain was too heavy.
I couldn’t have seen anything anyway by virtue of the fact that I was huddled under all the blankets I could find, trying to convince myself that the lightning was going away.

“Thousand one, thousand two …” Nope, it wasn’t going away. It seemed to be getting closer, and a LOT brighter.

I was sure I was the only one who was awake in the whole world. There was no sound or light from the house, and even the dog was zonked out in the kitchen.

Wow, that last one was REALLY bright! “Thous….”

BAMB!

The lightning struck a tree just outside my window.

The concussion rattled the glass in the window, and I jumped faster than I had ever moved in my life before or since.

Unfortunately, I didn’t really jump up, per se. I was lying down, and in the instantaneous rush of fear, I forgot which was UP.

Up is supposed to be where your head is in relation to your feet. This works when standing, running, sitting and even climbing, but the theory falls apart once you’re in bed. An error of this sort is particularly painful when you have a solid wood headboard.

During that last jolt, my mother woke up and came out to check on me; to be sure I was all right. She was relived that I didn’t seem at all frightened, but I think I hit my self senseless.

To this day I have NEVER again counted between the light and the noise. There are some things I would simply rather not know.