The Storm

One of my favorite memories of my maternal grandfather involves the weather.

A storm blew up; it was probably a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, because he would have been at work otherwise.

He and I sat on the back stoop, looking out over the trim yard and at the fence and house beyond. The wind blew my strawberry-blond hair around my face, and made his cigarette smoke race away from us like a train chugging down a lengthy track.

Grandpa did not often sit with me, or spend time with us grandchildren, really. He worked hard at his job and he made money on the side as a TV repairman. He could be rather gruff and stern. I was partially afraid of him and partially in awe of him.

But this day he sat companionably with me as the storm came. The wind brought the scent of rain. Lightning began its play in the sky. We watched in silence, each of us looking at the clouds and listening for the thunder. It was then he taught me to count the seconds between the thunder clap and the lightning. "That's how far away the lightning is," he said.

A forked blast of lightning sticks in my memory. It was an unusual twist, different enough to bring a remark from my grandfather. He took my hand, then. Big fat rain drops began to fall, and he led me inside.