AS I WRITE this, there’s a thunderstorm raging in the heavens and I am a miserable wreck quaking in my boots. Not really, I’m wearing bedroom slippers but you get the point. I hate thunderstorms, and there is little I can do about it. I have read all the science and still, like those who believe climate change is the result of mankind despite a boatload of evidence against it, I am still scared I could die.
My fear stems from childhood. I was about 10 or 11 when a scary thing happened. My best friend at the time, Adrienne Levine (if she’s out there and anyone knows her, please tell her I’ve been looking for her for years), and I were lying on her parent’s bed watching “The Ed Sullivan Show” on TV. It was a Sunday night, her parents were out to dinner and her older brother who was about 16—his name might have been Allen—was “baby-sitting” us.
It was summer. A hot night. The windows were open. It started raining. There was thunder. Then lightning. Then a bolt of lightning came through the window and struck the TV, which burst into flames. Naturally we ran screaming from the room looking for Allen, who hardly knew what to do himself. I guess he called the fire department because they arrived and put out the fire.
Anyway, I’ve never forgotten that, so whenever there’s a storm I turn off the TV. This annoys my husband who tells me to “get over it.” My son doubts it happened, adding that, “nothing like any of your crazy s…t ever happened to me when I was a kid.”
For once I agree with him: That was some crazy s…t.
Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.