We had a good old thunderboomer last night. As I sat up listening to the swirling storm and sounds of thunder almost shaking our little home I was reminded of a few things.
My wife and daughters had spent a miserable day in the cold wind and fitful rain, trying to sell Girl Scout cookies without much success. Once home, they were all eager to get dry and cozy. When the rain, still short of its full fury, began to intensify, my wife said with a pleased note in her voice, “This is good sleeping weather.”
I agreed in principle, being fond of the hypnotic sound of rain on a tin roof, but I was less eager to sleep than I was curious to see just how intense the rain might get. Some reports had indicated the thunder and lightning might be significant. Much to my delight, it was.
Having something of a stormy nature myself, I have always been fascinated by storms and the stories than swirl within and around them. From man’s earliest days, the power of the storm was attributed to the supernatural and the divine. The moaning wind, spear-like lightning and shattering, cataclysmic sound of thunder was the work of gods and monsters. It reflected the dual nature of the forces beyond mortal control: the nourishing rain fed crops but the raging storm could also uproot oaks, flood fields and collapse stout walls.
Now, no one enjoys the aftermath of such things. As we know all too well after Hurricane Helene, the destruction wrought by a truly dangerous storm can undo years of work, waste time and energy, even exacting a price in human lives. But as I mentioned in one of my columns just after that historic deluge, don’t forget what we learned from the storm. Hold onto the feeling of gratitude just to be alive and upright after the clouds break and the sun returns. Because I knew we would forget. I knew I would forget.
It is the doom of men that they forget— I badly wish those were my own words. They are from the movie Excalibur, but they ring very, very true. We seem to be doing a lot of forgetting lately as individuals and as a country. I fear that forgetfulness means another storm is coming, one in which people will have to decide where and what they will shelter— and how things can and should be rebuilt afterward.
