Good, Quality Thunder

Last week we sat on the porch as it was getting dark listening to the sound of rolling thunder. The atmosphere was unsettled after a week of scorching heat. Rain came down in sheets, carrying away the driveway gravel with it. Towering thunderclouds in the distance tempted me with the idea of climbing them. I have always had the fantasy of seeing small cloud people busy on the tops of puffy clouds as I flew past them by jet. I imagine families of them traveling the world on their particular cloud, coming near enough on occasion to other billowing clouds to have a jamboree. Such was the view from our porch: a sky full of fat clouds, looking like stacks of marshmallows, miles high, offering the potential of grand hoedown.

            There was lightening in the area. Honestly, we should not have been outside. But we were undercover, somewhat below the eaves of our cabin, the storm moving away from us by then, the spectacle worthy of a Thomas Cole painting. The rain had stopped and we sat just to watch and listen as the storm’s slashing furry settled to not much more than a purr. “That’s good, quality thunder,” my wife said, as it rippled around us like a prowling cat.

             I was sorry the grandchildren were not here for it. Their June vacation with us came and went with nothing but clear skies and hot temperatures, suitable for doing everything outdoors especially swimming and boating on the pond. More confident swimmers this year, they left wet footprints and damp towels everywhere they went. They spent hours in the water, with flippers and goggles, exploring the reeds, making hooting noises I could hear through their snorkels when they saw fish.

            But what is a summer vacation in New England without the sound of good, quality thunder bouncing off the mountains or glassy lakes? What is it without a memory, or two, of being pushed offstage by the sudden entrance of nature in full uniform, to watch it parade by from the windows or screened porch, or sheltered in the car with all the windows rolled up?

            The consequence is that the jigsaw puzzle on the downstairs table is no further along than when they arrived. I am not walking on Monopoly pieces or finding pink five dollar bills between the sofa cushions. We did not go bowling.

            We did go for walks. We did carefully inspect kayaks and canoes for dock spiders. We ate plenty of ice cream, though very few green vegetables. And we doated on the puppy, Huckleberry, who has since been a state of decline, once again alone with old people who insist on walking from place to place instead of running. And who do not climb rocks, or fit comfortably, all together on the couch, while watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang before bed.

            Summer has settled in. The woods are dense and breathing. I am waiting for the corn and tomatoes now.