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http://www.omniture.com --> Sections Home Page Local News AP News Archives Business Classifieds Event Calendar Forums Life Opinion Obituaries Photo Gallery Since We Asked Sports Tempo Weather Special Coverage 2006 Britt Festivals --> Shop Our Valley AutoFinder HomeFinder JobFinder Search Our Valley Special Sections Homelife Magazine Joy Magazine Readers Choice 2006 Oregon Golf Info Oregon Wine Info Our Valley Other Publications Local Links Ashland News eSouthernOregon Newspapers In Education Personals Moving Here Movie Listings TV Listings Volunteer Customer Service Advertise With Us Media Kit Place Classified Ad Contact Us FAQ's Home Delivery Site Map --> Email Story to a Friend July 23, 2006 Thunder lovers of the world, unite! No question: There is something disgustingly sick and demented about someone who enjoys a good thunderstorm. Probably caused by poor potty training, lack of paternal love or the adolescent thrill of courting danger. Yet few things spark my spirit like seeing thunderheads rising some 30,000 feet overhead on a summer's evening. You always know a show is about to begin. With the potential of thunderstorms on the horizon this time of year, I like to keep the popcorn handy. I relish the sight of those anvil clouds building up high overhead. Sun rays filter down through like sunlight through the stained glass of a cathedral. For us thunderphiles, it's a religious experience. But even the devout among us knows you don't have a prayer if you stand around outside gawking up at the darkening clouds. Get thee inside fast before a thunderstorm delivers its sizzling sermon. And my preferred thunderstorms are delivered wet. I take exception to dry t-storms that spark wildfires. Give me a heavy downpour after the fireworks, particularly those big warm raindrops that splash when they hit the ground. If you are really fortunate you'll be splattered with graupel, that unique precipitation halfway between hail and snow. It's like being smacked in the face by a snow cone thrown by Mother Nature. Legend has it that primitive folk — those of us not dwelling in Ashland — believed thunder was the sign the gods were angry with the behavior of humanoids below. My favorite was Thor, the Norse god of thunder and lightning who carried a big hammer known as Mjolnir. Thor was known for his smiting ability. Seems the old gods did an ungodly amount of smiting. But scientists are relatively sure that omniscient beings aren't entirely responsible for most thunderstorms. The brainiacs will tell you that lightning, when you boil it all down, is sparked by electrical charges fighting with one another. Picture Democrats and Republicans, fueled by plenty of hot air, smiting each other hip and thigh. Further, the smart folks have determined that since light streaks along at 186,280 miles per second while sound travels at a relatively sluggish 1,100 feet per second, you can estimate the distance you are from a strike. In other words, a boom five seconds after a flash means you are roughly a mile from the strike. But flash! boom! overhead means you're in the strike zone. I once had an Old English sheep dog named Moses who became an Old English chicken when it came to thunderstorms. The big hairy fellow, ordinarily brave to a fault, ran for cover the moment the summer evening grew hot and humid. When a thunderstorm sizzled and clapped outside, the big baby would literally clap his hairy paws over his mop-like face and whimper and wail. Yet he was immediately ready for a romp in the still-wet woods once the thunderheads headed off to scare the bejabbers out of other Old English sheep dogs. He knew that nothing smells fresher than rain after a thunderous exhibition. I've seen thunderstorms boil up in Alaska, Egypt, Ireland, Texas and Vietnam. I've even seen one hammer the aptly named Donner und Blitzen (Thunder and Lightning) River in Eastern Oregon. But my favorite has to be the southwest Oregon storms at night with the rumbling and roaring up a mountainside and down a ravine. Talk about shake, rattle and roll. Before the fireworks, you can almost smell the electrical charges in the air. There is an acrid, almost metallic odor. The air is stifling hot without even a breeze. Then a blindlingly bright white flash slashes through the black velvet night. Seconds later a deep rumbling roar threatens to shatter every window. And the wind screams like a banshee through the trees. It's fiendishly fun. Reach reporter Paul Fattig at 776-4496 or at [email protected] Advertisement s Mail Tribune Home | Local News | Sports | Business | Obituaries | Life | Opinion AP News | Archives | Site Map | Community | Classified Copyright © 1997-2006 Mail Tribune, Inc. 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