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Writer's Block: And the forecast is…
Sep. 27th, 2011 10:13 am[Error: unknown template qotd]
I miss the apocalyptic thunderstorms we used to get at Fort Benning. Growing up in a place that barely had seasons, let along weather, left me totally naive about what a storm really was.
Picture the scene. A hot August day. Well over 100°F/37.7°C. 80%+ humidity. You're out in full early-eighties infantry kit: steel pot, BDUs, LBE, M-16A1 and ammo for the M-60. The air is so thick and still you swear that if you stay in the same place you can use up all the oxygen around you. The air is a solid thing. Humidity and sweat have plastered your clothing to you and you can see that the camo face paint is running off your platoon mates' faces.
Then the word comes: storm moving in. The order is given to take off and stack all metal equipment. Everyone lies down in the open, well away from the treeline. Then a line of ink-black clouds appears, boiling across the Chattahoochee River valley. The temperature drops 15 degrees in 15 seconds, and the air suddenly become crystal clear. The world goes dark as the clouds blot out the sun, and the temperature falls even farther, leaving you shivering. Then the rain comes down in sheets, drenching you and turning the ground to red muck. Above you lightning arcs from cloud to cloud, or streaks towards the ground. Deeper in the storm, lightning merely lights the clouds, giving you momentary glimpses of what most surely has to be a war between the storm gods. Thunder rolls and crashes until you can't tell when one peal ends and another begins. This goes on for twenty minutes or so, then the storm front passes and light returns.
Yeah, I really miss that.
What I don't miss is snow. I despise the White Slushy Menace in all its forms.
I miss the apocalyptic thunderstorms we used to get at Fort Benning. Growing up in a place that barely had seasons, let along weather, left me totally naive about what a storm really was.
Picture the scene. A hot August day. Well over 100°F/37.7°C. 80%+ humidity. You're out in full early-eighties infantry kit: steel pot, BDUs, LBE, M-16A1 and ammo for the M-60. The air is so thick and still you swear that if you stay in the same place you can use up all the oxygen around you. The air is a solid thing. Humidity and sweat have plastered your clothing to you and you can see that the camo face paint is running off your platoon mates' faces.
Then the word comes: storm moving in. The order is given to take off and stack all metal equipment. Everyone lies down in the open, well away from the treeline. Then a line of ink-black clouds appears, boiling across the Chattahoochee River valley. The temperature drops 15 degrees in 15 seconds, and the air suddenly become crystal clear. The world goes dark as the clouds blot out the sun, and the temperature falls even farther, leaving you shivering. Then the rain comes down in sheets, drenching you and turning the ground to red muck. Above you lightning arcs from cloud to cloud, or streaks towards the ground. Deeper in the storm, lightning merely lights the clouds, giving you momentary glimpses of what most surely has to be a war between the storm gods. Thunder rolls and crashes until you can't tell when one peal ends and another begins. This goes on for twenty minutes or so, then the storm front passes and light returns.
Yeah, I really miss that.
What I don't miss is snow. I despise the White Slushy Menace in all its forms.
