Insert emotions where words fail
This was actually posted Sunday night, about 1152 pm. Post is timestamped to reflect time of actual writing.
The last few flickers die away. I am left lamenting that this, like all good things, must come to an end. The National Weather Service detected a severe thunderstorm 16 miles southeast of L'Anse at 0534, moving eastward at 45 mph, and subsequently issued a Severe Thunderstorm Warning for Baraga County until 0615. Little did they know that I'd been watching a branch of this electrical storm blowing over Houghton since 0445. (Other such warnings were issued for other parts of the western UP, including Houghton County, but the earliest time of detection indicated on any of them that I saw was 0527. By 0550, Doppler radar suggests that all but the tiniest trace of the storm has passed from the Greater Houghton Metropolitan Area.)
I don't have the greatest attention span. I get distracted watching sports on TV, and everyone will tell you that putting a sporting event on the telly is one of the quickest ways to get my attention. I watched this, without commercials or interruption (except a brief run about to close any windows when the rain started pelting), mesmerized, for no less than 50 minutes.
I don't say this about many things, but this was better than television.
I've never been one for fireworks, but this was the best light show I've ever seen. Granted, many works of nature leave me awe-struck: eagles, aurora borealis, certain women, fall colors, to name a few. But this, this was beyond anything like that, except maybe the aurora (though this easily puts any aurora I've seen to shame), due to its sheer dynamic, shifting, unpredictable feel.
For once being up in the middle of the night pays off. I'm sitting there in the living room, reading the paper starting about 0330, and every so often the picture window admits a flick of light. Perhaps one every ten minutes to start, but becoming more and more frequent. By the time I get to section C roundabouts 0440, the light is getting distracting. I shut off the lamp and walk over to the window; the clouds are either alive or on fire, I cannot tell which. I grab my camera, go outside and take a couple videos, but they cannot do the display justice. While I'm recording, a few drops start to fall; I step under the eave, but stay outside, unable to rip my eyes from the spectacle above me, around me. Daylight comes and goes in an instant; comes and goes again. Several times per minute now I can make out the contour of Quincy Hill; some part of the sky is almost continually lit at least partially. I ponder gifts, and how they are given.
BOLT! A stunning break from the indistinct flashes seems to flow from the sky. I am surprised that the forest west of Hancock does not burst into flame, only to realize that it is now pouring. Big, heavy drops falling in torrents that shroud the hill in gray, even from the brightest flashes. I duck inside to close windows about 0500 so the point of having a house isn't made entirely moot. I briefly ponder MythBusters.
I stay inside, but perch myself on a footstool as close as I can get it to the picture window. Sometimes I can swear it's noon, others that it's midnight. Flashes so bright I have to close my eyes against them. I mourn these as lost. Others, less painful, rise to ease my grief. I ponder sportswriting and wind patterns in baseball stadiums.
Mom, awakened by rain and continuous rolling thunder, walks in, points out conventional wisdom regarding thunderstorms and windows. I ignore this; if I die, it's an easier transition, because I've been a step closer to God than usual for the last half hour. I ponder religion.
Bolt! I can still see it after it is gone; even an hour later, a fading phantom lies burned on my retina. The movement of clouds begins to become clear, as a couple small gaps reveal that true daylight has indeed begun to return to this part of the world. The gaps fly along, twist, are absorbed by clouds; new ones appear. The rain has stopped. With a faint backlight from the dawn, bursts of cloudlight are that much more spectacular. Whole clouds are backlit, underlit, and interiorly lit. Flash, ripple, bolt. Flicker. It begins to slow. I ponder the end of things. As in the axiom, I cry not that it is over, but am eternally grateful that it has happened.
I write. It takes longer than I expected. I think I'll go have some cereal and ponder the rest of the Dave Barry article.
The last few flickers die away. I am left lamenting that this, like all good things, must come to an end. The National Weather Service detected a severe thunderstorm 16 miles southeast of L'Anse at 0534, moving eastward at 45 mph, and subsequently issued a Severe Thunderstorm Warning for Baraga County until 0615. Little did they know that I'd been watching a branch of this electrical storm blowing over Houghton since 0445. (Other such warnings were issued for other parts of the western UP, including Houghton County, but the earliest time of detection indicated on any of them that I saw was 0527. By 0550, Doppler radar suggests that all but the tiniest trace of the storm has passed from the Greater Houghton Metropolitan Area.)
I don't have the greatest attention span. I get distracted watching sports on TV, and everyone will tell you that putting a sporting event on the telly is one of the quickest ways to get my attention. I watched this, without commercials or interruption (except a brief run about to close any windows when the rain started pelting), mesmerized, for no less than 50 minutes.
I don't say this about many things, but this was better than television.
I've never been one for fireworks, but this was the best light show I've ever seen. Granted, many works of nature leave me awe-struck: eagles, aurora borealis, certain women, fall colors, to name a few. But this, this was beyond anything like that, except maybe the aurora (though this easily puts any aurora I've seen to shame), due to its sheer dynamic, shifting, unpredictable feel.
For once being up in the middle of the night pays off. I'm sitting there in the living room, reading the paper starting about 0330, and every so often the picture window admits a flick of light. Perhaps one every ten minutes to start, but becoming more and more frequent. By the time I get to section C roundabouts 0440, the light is getting distracting. I shut off the lamp and walk over to the window; the clouds are either alive or on fire, I cannot tell which. I grab my camera, go outside and take a couple videos, but they cannot do the display justice. While I'm recording, a few drops start to fall; I step under the eave, but stay outside, unable to rip my eyes from the spectacle above me, around me. Daylight comes and goes in an instant; comes and goes again. Several times per minute now I can make out the contour of Quincy Hill; some part of the sky is almost continually lit at least partially. I ponder gifts, and how they are given.
BOLT! A stunning break from the indistinct flashes seems to flow from the sky. I am surprised that the forest west of Hancock does not burst into flame, only to realize that it is now pouring. Big, heavy drops falling in torrents that shroud the hill in gray, even from the brightest flashes. I duck inside to close windows about 0500 so the point of having a house isn't made entirely moot. I briefly ponder MythBusters.
I stay inside, but perch myself on a footstool as close as I can get it to the picture window. Sometimes I can swear it's noon, others that it's midnight. Flashes so bright I have to close my eyes against them. I mourn these as lost. Others, less painful, rise to ease my grief. I ponder sportswriting and wind patterns in baseball stadiums.
Mom, awakened by rain and continuous rolling thunder, walks in, points out conventional wisdom regarding thunderstorms and windows. I ignore this; if I die, it's an easier transition, because I've been a step closer to God than usual for the last half hour. I ponder religion.
Bolt! I can still see it after it is gone; even an hour later, a fading phantom lies burned on my retina. The movement of clouds begins to become clear, as a couple small gaps reveal that true daylight has indeed begun to return to this part of the world. The gaps fly along, twist, are absorbed by clouds; new ones appear. The rain has stopped. With a faint backlight from the dawn, bursts of cloudlight are that much more spectacular. Whole clouds are backlit, underlit, and interiorly lit. Flash, ripple, bolt. Flicker. It begins to slow. I ponder the end of things. As in the axiom, I cry not that it is over, but am eternally grateful that it has happened.
I write. It takes longer than I expected. I think I'll go have some cereal and ponder the rest of the Dave Barry article.