It's like: "How Does Disney Do It?"

One of the things magical about the Great Lakes weather is the sudden thunderstorm that appears to come out of nowhere on a steamy afternoon. The air is heavy, dripping from the trees as well as the bill of your baseball cap. By noon, it heats up. the sky darkens quickly, even to the point of the street lights slowly pulsing on, then a puff of a breeze and soft continuous rolls of thunder, and then the sheets of rain wash across the area. It always reminds me of the bedding mom hung on the clothesline between the house and the garage that suddenly flapped in the breeze then, just as suddenly, hung quietly like altar cloths in the parish church.

If you are lucky, by the time it hits you have found a little corner bar that keeps the doors open to catch some fresh air, and the patrons stare outside, hypnotized, totally ignoring the “extreme” “made-for-TV” sports on the afternoon satellite dish.

Or maybe you are really lucky, and you’re back home sitting on the front porch swing, and your mom or your aunt has brought out some fresh lemonade or punch, and they start to tell stories about how your dad wasn’t afraid of storms like they were, but would make a big bowl of popcorn and grab some ice tea from the ice-box. Everyone would “ooh” and “ahh” at the lightning and swear life couldn’t be better.