![]() While the little girl in my memory had been cozily holed up in a wooden cabin with solid oak floors, a noisy tin roof, and windows with heavy glass panes, my present self was stashed away in a thin fabric tent with sides constantly threatening to flatten in the wind and a hole where some previous camper had apparently decided to burn a candle for too long. Then you’ll know how many miles away the storm is.” I remember crouching beside her in our cabin, chewing my thumb nervously as I nodded and waited for the thunderstorm to pass.įourteen years later, I crouched on my sleeping pad in much the same position, recalling that interaction with a twinge of envy. “Just count the seconds, and then when you hear the thunder, divide by six. When I was seven years old, a counselor at the church camp I was attending taught me how to measure the distance of a storm by counting the seconds between the lightning and the subsequent clap of thunder.
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