Thunderstorm Therapy

This July, in Montana, thunderstorms roll in nearly every evening. They come on the tail of gusty winds, with the smell of ozone, and with the dogs fidgeting about. They come with memories.

The harbinger of a good summer storm, I remember best, is the color green. We kids would be playing kickball or shimmying up the old pear tree when the wind suddenly died down and the entire world took on the hue of watery pea soup. The hairs on the backs of our necks would prickle just as Mom appeared on the porch. “Get on in here,” she’d call. “There’s a storm coming.”

We’d obey, rarely making it to the front steps before being pelted with raindrops the size of quarters, or so it seemed, on our scrawny arms. Once inside, we’d look out the window to watch the trees dance higgledy-piggledy and the sky crack in half with lighting. Like the lightning, we crackled with excitement, but also a healthy amount of fear—reverence for nature’s strength.

The first clap of thunder inevitably turned our attention to the construction of an indoor fort. Sheets were ripped off beds and draped over the kitchen table. We dragged pillows and blankets into the center of our makeshift den, along with the family dog and cat, a few books, crayons, paper, and sometimes we set up house with our dolls. The cool of the storm got Mom baking, and eventually we would be munching on peanut butter cookies or ginger snaps warm from the oven.

All was right. We were safe, tucked away in our downy fortress like hatchlings in a nest.

I think, once, I read a book that actually began, “It was a dark and stormy night…” or maybe that’s something I made up, but thunderstorms seldom conjured images of Frankenstein or Dracula, or grave robbers, or other things that go bump in the night. Evening thunderstorms meant candlelight and kerosene lamps casting a soft glow. They meant story telling and eagle and rabbit shadow puppets cavorting on the wall. They meant falling asleep to the rhythm of the rain tap-tap-tapping on the rooftop.

Today, just like back then, the morning after such a storm dawns clean—the therapeutic value of walking barefoot in thick wet grass strewn with windblown petals so very appreciated. Yes, one could grow melancholy, the day after storm as the sun dissipates the metallic zing of ozone, except for the fact that it’s replaced with the smell of a radiant promise.