When I was nine years old, I rode in a pickup truck for 11 hours squished between my mother and grandmother. We were on a road trip to visit family in Wyoming. I spent time with my cousin, a sweet girl a couple years younger than me. We camped in a tent in the back yard and made flower crowns. One evening we noticed the sky darken and thunder heads begin to slowly roll in. We wanted it to storm. We got tired of waiting. I convinced my cousin that we could hasten the storm if we really wanted to. We asked the sky to hurry up. We demanded rain and wind and lightning and thunder as we danced and held hands and spun in circles until we were breathless and dizzy and collapsed on the ground in a giggling heap. Then the storm blew in. My cousin’s eyes lit up and she looked at me in surprise, like I was the wisest person on the planet. The wind lifted our long hair like invisible fingers running through it. We laughed until our sides ached and chanted for more, ‘Thunder rolls and lightning strikes, thunder rolls and lightning strikes!’ Over and over. Then the thunder did, indeed, begin to roll, and the lightning streaked across the sky. We danced some more in rain. The storm got worse. We stopped dancing and slowly grew a bit frightened by it’s strength. The wind began to turn over the lawn furniture. Our tent flew away. My uncle scooped up my cousin, my mother hustled me inside. We lost power and had to use oil lamps at supper time. My cousin and I were pleased as punch. I knew I’d have explaining to do later. My mother never liked it when I called in a storm.Â
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