Many fond memories come to mind when I think of my summer home. One particular occasion that comes to mind was late in June of '95. The first summer storm I had seen since I arrived back home came roaring in. I had been going through some rough times and I was glad to be at home, safe and free. This summer storm seemed to sum up what I had been going through.
             A muted rumbling in the distance causes me to look up from my tinkering for the telltale signs of another summer storm. Ah-ah, there it is, the inky black clouds lining the horizon, lit by the occasional lightning bolt streaking through them. Again the angry mutterings of molecules slammed against one another by the bolts of electricity zipping through them, echo across the landscape. Putting away my bike and tools, I notice the stillness that almost always precedes these downpours, as if Mother Nature herself is holding her breath against the tirade to come. Birds take to their nests; insects cease their buzzing; even the family mutt has sought shelter from the impeding deluge. My bike and tools safely stored, I take a seat on the front steps to watch the lightning dance in the clouds, accompanied by crashing thunder.
             Suddenly the once unbearably hot temperature drops to an almost glacial level, chilling the first stirrings of a breeze heavy with the scent of rain. Steadily the wind picks up, churning a small whirlwind of leaves through the yard and chasing away the sunlight. After turning my hat around, I feel the first icy drops of water, a deceptively light sprinkle. Without warning, the heavens open up and release what must have once been a small ocean, chasing me inside to find a dry towel. After changing into something less soggy, I grab a Coke; some tunes, and head for the large picture window in the living room. Here I can observe the raging storm through rain-streaked windows, giving an almost surreal quality to the spectacle.
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