Our last home in Wheaton, Indiana Street, coincided with my first memory of a thunderstorm. My father must have been away, for it was my visiting grandfather who gently tugged on my ankles and drew me out from under the bed. He bundled me into something warm, took me out to the front porch, and sat me on his lap.

"Thunder," he explained, "happens when two big clouds can't see in the night and bang into each other--and say OW!"

I quickly realized that Grandpa wasn't afraid; that he actually enjoyed the fury and flash of light. To this day I enjoy a good storm, and not one blows in but I think of fondly of him.

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