It has been raining all day today again. I don’t mind the Oregon rain, but I miss the thunderstorms I remember as a child in Pennsylvania. I can still remember distinctly . . .
A burst of thunder announces the rain before it even arrives and lightning splits open the sky. With a squeal of delight I dash outside to our front porch. Rain falls to the earth in sheets. Darting into the rain I fling my arms wide spinning in giddy circles. I turn my face to the rain and let the raindrops splash against my tongue.
“Hurry back up here to the porch before you get fried!” mother playfully calls at the second roll of thunder and strike of lightning. I settle myself into my favorite spot to watch the show, under the old table on the porch. As the rain pounds the earth incessantly, the intoxicating scent of damp earth washes over me. I enjoy nature’s fireworks accompanied by astounding sound effects.
Too soon it ends and steals away as quickly is it came; torrents fading into drips. The sun forces its way through the clouds and the only remnants of the storm to be found are giant puddles in the fields. We bound through the fields from puddle to puddle. They become wading pools as we splash and play in the summer sun the water lapping at our waists. Too soon the life is sucked out of them and we wait, anxious for our next thunderstorm romp.