South Mountain

I can remember standing on the front porch of our house with my father when I was maybe ten years old. We lived in a small valley and a few miles away to the west was the rim of the valley. This was called South Mountain . We could watch storms approaching from the other side of the mountain.

My father taught me how to predict when the storm would reach us by counting the seconds between when we saw the lightning and when we would hear the thunder. The closer the storm, the less time it takes between seeing the lightning and hearing the thunder.

It takes a long time, too, when you first get clean and sober to get a clear picture of reality. Relapse now and you may never hear the thunder and feel the rain wash clean the debris of your disease.

My father and I stood on the porch. We saw the storm get nearer, saw the lightning, heard the thunder, the dog and cat beneath the couch because they were frightened and did not understand. And then the rain would come down in buckets, the street still hot, giant puddles of water, the steam rising and sometimes, just sometimes, after the storm, we would see a rainbow.

 

from All Drinking Aside (Rough Draft. Chapter 64)