This week the weather where I live has been loud. The sound of the sewing machine was obliterated by the deluge outside my window. The trees were bent by gusts, and there were road closures from downed wires. When the electricity got rolling, there were bursts that made my overhead lamps seem pathetic. Then there was the
thunder.
I don't actually understand the physics of it all. Static charges arguing, or air pockets changing places seem like flimsy excuses for the events of a summer storm. My curiosity led me to discover that the most struck spot on earth is an unsuspecting lake in Venezuela. Every other day there is a storm, in which the lightning hits every other second. It turns out
my eyes are not accurate in their assessment, since a bolt is only as wide as my thumb. I was startled to learn that they are five times as hot as the sun.
How do they measure that, anyway?
The whole rigmarole ramps up at our house because
Benjamin is scared of storms. But instead of emulating the rain by crying, he challenges the thunder to see who is louder. Maybe it is because of feelings inside him abruptly swapping places. I don't understand physiology much more than I do physics. When things calmed down, he said he was sorry.
Forty years ago we lived in Florida, whose record for thunderstorms is
hefty as well. But more than the crashing outside, which did strike an oak and fizzle two of our appliances, I recall the noise inside. With three small children, I did more yelling than was good for us. Maybe not every other day, or every other second, but too much.
I have told my kids that I am sorry for the times I howled. Perhaps they forgive me.
But how do I measure that, anyway?