Heat Lightning

Here's an old story I wrote a number of years ago, one summer night when the weight of the air was pressing down on me:

It was a night much like tonight - brooding clouds after a day just a bit too hot to be comfortable; lightning skittering across the bay; a hope that something had to happen, and soon.  All the cousins were down the shore at our place; Mom said 'let's go to Dragon's,' and we all piled in the '57 Ford wagon, green and white the way Fords could be then, T-bird engine roaring as we pulled away, tailgate open, the older cousins' legs hanging off the back.

Dragon's was a soda fountain and notable comic book store (aka newsstand for the older folk) and it was next to a marina in a place inexplicably called Green Island - a place mostly tan, not green, and, as far as we could tell, maybe a peninsula but definitely not an island by any measure.  It wasn't too far from our bungalow in Silverton, just far enough to want to ride, in the heat.

Closer to the bay, a cool breeze was blowing, so it was inspiring to walk out on the marina docks with our ice cream and comic books - always, the new ones were at Dragon's first, long before we could find them in the city.  We all got so inspired, the whole gang of us cousins decided to walk back to the bungalow - officially known as Uncle Steve's Cabin - seeing as it was just heat lightning and it wasn't gonna rain....

Don't you know we were halfway home, the parents had long gone by in the wagon, and the whole sky broke open with gusting wind and soaking rain and man, were we scared, running like chickens without our heads, all the way home.

The old Ford's long gone, Dragon's is, too, though the marina is still there.  Uncle Steve's gone, too, but his Cabin still stands.  We all survived, and anymore when someone mentions heat lightning in our family, we all just laugh.