June 2, 2011-- Tornadoes and lightning and thunder, oh my....

I had every good intention of writing at least a short blog last night. Then my son came in the house around 4:30 with the news that our area was under a tornado watch and severe thunderstorms were headed in our direction. For the next four hours or so, we stayed in the house with the radio on, listening for weather updates and watching the storm as it passed. At one point, the sky turned a creepy purplish green and the wind and clouds were swirling round and round. We were all prepared to dive under the stairs at that point, but fortunately didn't have to.
I was a bit apprehensive the whole time though. Back in 1974, when I was nine, I was in the middle of the what was then the largest series of tornadoes to touch down in Alabama. We were staying in our travel trailer  at a friend's house, en route to Maine, when the storm approached. My parents were persuaded to stay that night at the friend's place instead of continuing north to the next campground, several hundred miles away. It was a nightmarish night with branches breaking and dropping on the tin roof of the camper, howling winds, heavy rain, etc. The next day, we did continue on our journey. We went past the campground where we would have stayed if not for the storm. The whole place was flattened and several people were dead.
Add to that the fact that in 1998, I was struck by lightning while inside the house-- the bolt hit me on the right foot, travelled up my right leg, crossed my chest, shot down my left arm and flew off my left index finger as a flash of blue light--and it makes sense that this kind of a storm would leave me kind of edgy.
Here's a poem I wrote several years ago about the storm in Alabama:

One Night in Alabama

Branches breaking

slithering and sliding

like water moccasins

on the aluminum roof.

Rain drums deafness.

My bladder aches full.

Huddled in my bunk

sticky, sweaty inside

the sleeping bag,

freight-train whistle-winds

rock, roll, lift, and lurch

the tin can camper that we’re in.

The dog whines, cowering

in the corner by the door.

Agitated whispers—dark

parental shadows crouch

over the radio. Static crackles:

funnel clouds in Marion county.

Megawatt flashes slash

the blackness cutting zigzags

in my eyes. I clamp the pillow

over my head. Smothered

into a nightmare, I startle

awake with urgent need.

Peeing sweet relief

into soft, black mud,

wet leaves stick

to my bare feet. Raindrops

on the roof spatter.

Daylight hugs the horizon.

In a campground in Tanner,

two hundred miles north,

everyone is dead.