⚡️⛈️⚡️ Portland’s non-storm – storm reminded me of a late spring or early summer storm that rumbled through the Seattle region when I was probably eight years old- and I’m sharing this story with you through my eight-year-old eyes.

Circa – 1971

The Night Heaven Went Bowling
(or that time the sky got dramatic and Mom turned it into magic)

When my siblings and I were wee little scrappy kids, we were absolutely terrified of thunder and lightning.

Now, being raised in the Pacific Northwest—a region known more for its gentle drizzle and broody skies than dramatic weather flair—we didn’t get much in the way of thunderstorms. But on the rare occasion the skies decided to throw a celestial tantrum? Ohhh baby. It was big. It was loud. It was biblical.

I remember our house on 10th Ave. West in Seattle had this massive bay window that looked out toward the east. Prime storm-watching real estate. And during one of those dramatic electric sky events, my brother, my sister, and I were clinging to the green velour couch like cats on a car roof. Absolutely glommed onto our mother—arms, legs, eyeballs, and possibly souls.

And Mom? Oh, Mom was not just any mom. She was the mom. The warmest, snuggliest, most radiant hugger this side of the Milky Way. A human thunder blanket. She didn’t need science or fancy explanations—she had love, imagination, and a PhD in making her kids feel safe and brave.

As thunder rumbled and lightning sliced through the sky like angry wizard fingers, Mom suddenly said, with the kind of bright idea tone that makes kids both curious and mildly concerned:

“Let’s go into the dining room!”

She pulled back the sheers like a game show host unveiling the Grand Prize: a front-row seat to the chaos of nature. Just as she did—KABLAM!—a lightning bolt exploded across the sky. It was a wild, jagged zigzag like the heavens had gotten into finger painting with glow sticks.

We trailed behind her like baby ducklings in footy pajamas, peeking around her legs. She gathered us close, arms around all three of us, and said in that calm, magic mom voice:

“Let’s find out how close the storm is.”

Then, with absolutely zero credentials in meteorology but full confidence in the power of pretend, she explained:

“When you see the lightning, start counting. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi… and when you hear the thunder, that tells you how far away the storm is.”

Another flash lit up the sky like a cosmic camera flash. We counted:
“One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississ—BOOOOM!”

The windows shook. Our ears buzzed. We launched ourselves back onto Mom like anxious squirrels on a tree trunk. And with a gentle smile and not a hint of fear, she said:

“Five miles away.”

And then, with a twinkle in her eye and a storyteller’s grin, she revealed the real truth:

“That? That’s just the angels in heaven wearing wooden clogs, bowling. The lightning is when they throw the ball, and the thunder is the pins getting knocked down.”

That explanation? That was everything. It was sweet, safe, and silly. And I believed it with my whole soggy Northwest heart.

Then another flash! We counted.
“One Mississippi, two Missi—BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!”

We jumped. Probably screamed. Possibly levitated.
Another flash. This time, the flash and the boom happened at the same moment.

Even Mom jumped a little.
“Oh my,” she laughed, wide-eyed. “That was a big one. I think somebody got a strike!”

Eventually, the storm tiptoed off into the night, the angels probably off celebrating their perfect game.

And we all trudged back to the big green couch and curled up like sleepy kittens. Mom wrapped her arms around us again and told stories about her childhood in Port Angeles, about the storms she used to watch, about how things used to sound and smell and feel when she was small.

She made everything okay.

I miss my mom and her stories.

I miss the way she could make thunder feel like music.
She was the best hugger in the whole world.

And the best kind of magic-maker. 🪄🧙🏼‍♀️🤍🫶🏼🩵