That number is how many miles away the storm is. When you hear the thunder, stop counting. When you see the lightning, start counting. Don't pay attention to that old thunder, except to see how close the storm is getting. Under cake, I stammered as a hub to even closer. Steady child, she could, unless you let go of me, we won't be able to make a thunder cake today. The air was hot, heavy, India, allowed clap of thunder, shook the house, rattled the windows, and made me grab her close. It's only thunder you're hearing, my grandma said. Grandma looked at the horizon, drew a deep breath and said this is thunder cake baking weather all right. This is the story of how my grandma, my babushka, helped me overcome my fear of thunderstorms. I always hit under the bed when the storm moved near the farmhouse. I feared the sound of thunder more than anything. Babushka, as I used to call my grandma, had come from Russia years before. The sound used to scare me when I was little.
The clouds glow for an instant with a sharp, crackling light, and then a roaring, low, tumbling sound of thunder makes the windows shudder in their pains. Thunder cake by Patricia polacco, on sultry summer days at my grandma's farm in Michigan, the air gets damp and heavy.
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