Severe thunderstorms hit Toronto this past weekend. We haven't seen the like in many a year. Lightning shows to rival Canada Day fireworks. Rolling thunder! Genuine rolling thunder, just like in a Louis L'Amour novel! Sudden, unexpected downpours. If we didn't feel Mother Nature's wrath like our benighted neighbours in the American midwest, we certainly felt the persnickity back of her hand. This is cause for great excitement among Toronto conversationalists of which there are three kinds: those who complain about the cold, those who complain about the heat, and those who complain about the heat and cold.
My boy Gavin loves what he refers to as "thunder-rain". Of a summer eve he will stand in the front yard gazing into the sky and request "thunder-rain, please". I oblige by waving my arms about and proclaiming a home-made incantation, "precipitatio", like some Hogwart's reject. Sometimes it works! Last night's downpour was too much for the boy. He couldn't contain himself. It was not enough to stand in the doorway and admire the elements - he must gallop (that's right, gallop) to the front yard and dance. His arms spread out and his face to the sky with an endearing cockeyed smile. I stood on the stoop with a towel and prayed that the lightning was as far out over the lake as it seemed. You may ask why I allowed this terpsichordian display, and as concerned level-headed folk you deserve an answer. There are two reasons. Number one, it is a gift to witness such pure joy. Number two, Gavin is a big kid, a big, single-minded kid, and he'd just knock me out of his way.