August 8, 2020

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When I was very little, I was looking out over the lake fearfully awaiting the next bolt of lightening and its resulting clap of thunder. My Aunt Fannie, Gramma Gussie's sister, whose wire-rim glasses always rested atop a smile as wide as the Mississippi itself, told me that she loved thunder and didn't I know it was simply angels bowling? She told me that some of them threw long, rolling gutter balls, some would only knock down a few pins (and we would count them) and some were SO talented that they threw a strike every time! She would throw her head back cheering for the best strikes after which she would carefully hand me a shiny new penny. By the time that storm ended, I had an entirely new appreciation for the beauty of a good storm.