Sheet Lightning

Two things struck me about the air conditioning of my youth: expensive and rare. With air conditioning beyond our means, we used electric fans or outdoor air to escape the heat. After my parents had finished their evening chores, they’d head outside and relax in the comfort of the cool evening on our patio. When the TV showed nothing that kept my interest, I fled the house and joined my parents, where I sat quietly and listened in the dark.

Mom spoke of the summer heat when she was young in the Kansas City West Bottoms. Entire families abandoned their homes for the night. At dusk, they carried their bedding and climbed the hill to Penn Valley Park. Once there, they enjoyed a good night’s sleep in the gentle breezes that tickled the hilltop.

Sometimes, they’d talk about The War. Dad lied about his age to get into the service and went swimming twice when his ship was shot out from under him. He carried scars, both physical and mental, but held no animosity toward the Japanese people.

I saw a flash cover the horizon and turned to Mom. “What was that?”

“Sheet lightning.” Her voice carried, soft and gentle. “Sometimes, you can see it in the summer.”

Beginning that night, the phenomenon captivated me. No sounds, no rumble of distant thunder, just a flash of light, barely visible along the horizon.

Years later, the Air Force taught me that this wasn’t some peculiar type of lightning. Rather, it was a gift from Colorado where thunderstorms grew in the Rocky Mountains, then headed east to drop their burden of rain onto the dry Kansas prairie. Without the sun’s heat to fuel them, they’d peter out and die long before they reached us, but we still received their greeting. Sheet lightning.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.