Summer storms

My dad loved the summer.

He had a hanging basket outside the shop. It was on a pulley so that it could easily be lowered to water it. And on the opposite side of the shop doorway he had a deckchair, so he could lounge in the sun between customers if the chance arose.

It was storms I remember most though.

He knew they were on the way. In the morning he would tap the barometer with his knuckle and check with a second smaller tap. The thermometer hung in the hallway, not in the shop, and he would always check it before disappearing through the door that divided working from living.

When the expected sudden summer rains came, with high heat and towering clouds, my dad would stand in the shop doorway. He would lean his right shoulder against the door-frame, stretch out his left arm, and put his hand on the opposite jamb, and watch the rains, swelling suddenly in the gutter by the pavement.

And in that space under his arm, that small triangle, I would stand, and we would both watch the storm pass, count down from the strike to the thunder to see how far away the lightning was. And enjoy the bouncing rain and the temporary absence of inconvenient customers.

Once the storm had moved through, we would watch the steam rising from the tarmac, and see islands of dryness emerge from the puddles. And eventually he would turn, go back into the shop and behind the counter, waiting for the next customer.

Today, when a storm is due, I will watch it from my front door, quietly excited, much in awe, expectant. And still under my father’s arm.