"Dang...That Was Close!!"

I live in the "Lightening Capital Of The United States." Don't believe me? Check out the map at left. Admittedly it isn't the best map to illustrate my point, but if you look closely - find Florida first, then the Tampa Bay & St. Petersburg area, which is about half way up the state on the left - and you'll see this is the only location throughout the entire United State that gets graded 100 on the scale. Rwanda, Africa, however, holds the distinct honor of being the Lightening Capital of the world, receiving 2.5 more strikes per year than our area. God help those poor, unfortunate souls if their storms are any more intense than are ours...because we get some duzzies!!

The weather here is pretty docile from late fall until late in the spring. However, when the "rainy season" kicks in and the humidity starts to climb to the point where it's literally running off the tip of your nose, then it's "Katy bar the door" for your daily, garden-variety thunderstorms. Florida, being a peninsular state surrounded on three sides by vast expanses of water, has sea breezes coming in off of the Gulf of Mexico on the west side and from the Atlantic on the east. Depending on which way the breeze is blowing on any given day dictates from which direction we are most likely to get clobbered. And when the two sea breezes complete for dominance, that's when all hell usually breaks loose.

I'm not a fan of lightening and have not been since before I can remember. My parents told me that when I was just a toddler I was standing between them at the front window watching a particularly nasty storm when a lightening bolt struck just across the street. They said I jumped back, knocking both of them over. I'm pretty sure they embellished the story a bit, but that first up close and personal encounter with lightening apparently left an indelible impression on my psychic that had ample opportunity to blossom into a full-blown phobia in my later younger years.

I grew up in rural North Carolina. We lived on a small, six-acre tract of land that my father nourished from being woefully dilapidated into a show piece of horticulture excellence. If a particular fruiting plant had any chance of growing in our area of North Carolina, my father would stick it in the ground and dictate that my younger brother and I were to cultivate it and harvest the resulting crop. One of his favorite plants were strawberries and we had a "patch" just this side of being the size of Rhode Island. My brother, three years my junion, and I could start on one long row and by the time we got to the other end more strawberries had ripened from whence we came. At the height of strawberry pickin' season it was a never ending battle to try and stay ahead of these little red boogers. And the height of the strawberry season was also dead in the middle of summer thunderstorm season!

As my fate would plague me, Thor, the mythical god of thunder, conspired on one particular summer's afternoon to whip up one of his better efforts while my brother and I were in the middle of the patch. It only took a hint of thunder to get my undivided attention and with the first faint sound of a distant rumbling I was ready to head to the house. My father, however, had other ideas. We were to remain at our task until he declared that the approaching storm was of sufficient intensity to warrant immediate shelter. I had always regarded my father as being fearless, but on this particular day I was convinced that his personal bravado was most assuredly going to get my brother and me killed.

The low distant rumbles steadily evolved over a very few minutes into what sounded like a thousand crazed musicians vying to out do each other on kettle drums. The skies continued to darken, boil and lower ominously with the storm's advancing wall cloud rolling steadily in our direction like an unstoppable tsunami. A rush of wind swept past us and the air suddenly became charged with static electricity. My mind was filled with terror as I recounted all of the safety tips one is suppose to know if unfortunately caught out in the open in a thunderstorm. "Avoid being the tallest object and stay low to the ground." I was already blending in with the strawberry plant's root system! "Avoid holding or being near any mental object." "Great," thought I, " I'm going to die holding my Mother's metal cooking pan filled with strawberries, and when they find me I'll be nothing more than blackened charcoal and the strawberries will have turned into congealed jam!"

And then it happened...the mother of all lightening strikes ripped out of the sky and a struck a pine grove not 50 yards from where we were. Bolt upright I shot, strawberries being flung in all directions, and Mother's cooking pan landing some yards behind me as I turned tail and fled like a crazed maniac toward the safety of our house. My brother and I reached the back door at approximately the same instance where our Dad greeted us with a less than pleased look on his face. "Where's the strawberries? " "Pick your own damn strawberries!" my brother shouted as he pushed his way past Dad and me into the kitchen beyond. Even at the tender age of nine, I recognized brother John had a promising flair for the English language.

I have managed to learn to cope with my abject fear of lightening over my maturing years. I've pretty much given up hiding under the bed and sucking my thumb when a "really bad one" comes rolling through. However, I'm not quite ready to give up ear plugs or my snuggle bunny. Even now, as I gaze out my window, I hear Mother Nature cranking up yet another ear-splitter!

DANG...That Was Close!! Gotta go!!