At the age of ten I sat on our roof during a summer electrical storm with my older brother. The sky looked like the beginning of THE WIZARD OF OZ. Unlike Kansas Boston rarely offered such a dramatic show of weather. My father yelled for us to come inside. We thought we knew better and shouted that we were okay.
The two of us watched in awe, as lightning strikes spoked the hills to the south.
A cyclonic wind raked through the trees at the end of our lawn. The smell of ozone oozed over our flesh. My crew cut stood on end. The black clouds rippled like crow’s wings. My brother and I looked at each other. He said something I couldn’t hear and his eyes billowed with fear.
A lightning bolt split the willow tree twenty feet from us. The flash strobed my eyes and the clap of seared thunder rattled my teeth. Smoke smoldered from the trunk. Hail pelted us without mercy. It was time to go.
My brother and I leaped through the window and my father shook his head. “You’re lucky you’re not dead.”
He was right about that.