Enough with the lightning bolts already.
There are many reasons I love living up here. In the Top Five is the weather. Hot but not unbearable in the summer (although the rest of this week looks icky), and delightfully cold in the winter. And snow. Lots of snow. Which I adore.
Things that we do NOT have here (or at least not as frequently or as intense as some places I could name): hurricanes, tsunamis, deadly droughts, killer floods (I live on a hill), earthquakes, tornadoes, plagues of locusts or frogs, anthrax outbreaks, bird flu (yet), collapsing tunnels, volcanic eruptions, avalanches, sinkholes, or impact events. At least not so far.
What we do have, in addition to snow, are thunderstorms. Which come complete with lightning, for no extra charge.
I hate lightning. Don’t ask why. It’s irrational. I just hate it. I am a lightning weenie. Freaks me all the way out. Always has. Always will.
So BH and I were sitting in the sunroom at the back of the house yesterday, chatting about various and sundry things. The first wave of thunderstorms were moving through. Rumble, rumble, crash, bang. I was pretending that all was the right with the world. He knows me well, and tried to get me to breathe, and unclutch the couch cushions, which were in danger of being shredded.
a bolt of lightning exploded out of the meadow behind our house. I yelped, stuttered, pointed. It wasn’t bad enough that we almost just got nailed by lightning, but the meadow was on fire.
The good news is that where there is lightning, there is usually rain. The downpour that followed was heavy enough to put out the fire.
But, I mean, honestly….. was that completely necessary?