Read Online The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors by Michele Young-Stone - Free Book Online
Authors: Michele Young-Stone
Tags: Fiction, Family & Friendship
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the fingertips of a child propel time backward. The old, like the young, feel time slipping away. Grandma Edna felt her life was like flour in a sieve, the last bits of white dust clinging to mesh.
Hold on
.
Hearing the bad news about Bo, Becca’s dad adopted a black mutt called Whiskers. Although he was not fond of domesticated animals because of the dirt and hair, this was a great opportunity to turn a negative situation into a positive one, making him look good.
Excerpt from
THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS
When moisture is present, victims are visibly burned. Oftentimes, a strike will occur before it starts raining, in which case the current travels through the victim’s cardiovascular system. In these occurrences, there may be entry and exit wounds without severe burns.
Because lightning seeks the path of least resistance, the worst place to seek shelter during a thunderstorm is under a tree. If you can’t find adequate shelter, like a house or car, crouch close to the ground, covering your head with your hands, allowing only your feet to touch the ground. You’re less likely to suffer a direct hit, and if the current spreads and travels through your body, it may be less devastating by entering through the feet.
Farm animals tend to gather under trees to avoid the pelting rain. If the tree is struck, the animals fall like dominoes. I’ve never witnessed this event, but I’ve heard accounts from farmers. One man, Jackie Garlad, lost ten cows and three sheep from one strike.
[8]
Funk to funky, 1970
A tiger-striped butterfly flew through the magistrate’s open window, alighting on the corner of his mahogany desk. Buckley watched the butterfly, her wings closed, throwing a dandelion hue on the leather desk pad. He watched her wings open and close again, and for the life of him, he didn’t hear his mother and the reverend say “I do.” He was their witness, but he’d missed it. He was eleven years old. It was August 1970. It’d taken the reverend three years to talk his mother into marriage. Buckley didn’t understand his mother’s decision. They’d been fine without Reverend John Whitehouse sharing their home, sharing his mother’s bed.
After the marriage license was signed and dated, his new stepfather drove them to Shoney’s Big Boy on Route 54. Buckley ate a hot fudge sundae while the reverend took advantage of the “sweet buffet deal,” filling four scratched and sweaty plates.
Buckley never remembered his mother being there. He wasn’t much of a witness.
No one in middle school chased or hit Buckley. Coach Flanagan warned from the start that physical contact belonged in physical sports. “Energy expended outside practice is wasteful.” He also said many less practical things like, “When you boys grow into men, the girls will squeeze your balls in a vise.”
No one hit Buckley and no one squeezed his balls.
Between September and Christmas break, someone stole his gym shoes and science report, but no one cared. Then someone urinated in Buckley’s locker. Buckley imagined this someone laughing as he zipped his pants, pulling a can of spray paint from his back pocket and tagging the locker
BASTARD
. The incident was not easy for Mont Blanc middle to ignore, especially since Buckley now had a father—a reverend, no less. Principal Clark called Buckley to his office. “Was the locker locked? Do you have a lock? Did you lose your lock?” Principal Clark was frustrated by Buckley’s apathy.
“It was my third lock this year,” Buckley said.
“Do you know who’s pulling this nonsense?”
“No, sir.”
“Me either, and I wouldn’t particularly give a crap, except that it needs to stop, and it needs to stop today. The Women’s Auxiliary has already gotten word of this. It’s an embarrassment.”
Buckley had no idea who disliked him so much that they’d go to this trouble. No one knew him well enough to hate him.
Janitor Jackson, like Buckley, stood before the
Hold on
.
Hearing the bad news about Bo, Becca’s dad adopted a black mutt called Whiskers. Although he was not fond of domesticated animals because of the dirt and hair, this was a great opportunity to turn a negative situation into a positive one, making him look good.
Excerpt from
THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS
When moisture is present, victims are visibly burned. Oftentimes, a strike will occur before it starts raining, in which case the current travels through the victim’s cardiovascular system. In these occurrences, there may be entry and exit wounds without severe burns.
Because lightning seeks the path of least resistance, the worst place to seek shelter during a thunderstorm is under a tree. If you can’t find adequate shelter, like a house or car, crouch close to the ground, covering your head with your hands, allowing only your feet to touch the ground. You’re less likely to suffer a direct hit, and if the current spreads and travels through your body, it may be less devastating by entering through the feet.
Farm animals tend to gather under trees to avoid the pelting rain. If the tree is struck, the animals fall like dominoes. I’ve never witnessed this event, but I’ve heard accounts from farmers. One man, Jackie Garlad, lost ten cows and three sheep from one strike.
[8]
Funk to funky, 1970
A tiger-striped butterfly flew through the magistrate’s open window, alighting on the corner of his mahogany desk. Buckley watched the butterfly, her wings closed, throwing a dandelion hue on the leather desk pad. He watched her wings open and close again, and for the life of him, he didn’t hear his mother and the reverend say “I do.” He was their witness, but he’d missed it. He was eleven years old. It was August 1970. It’d taken the reverend three years to talk his mother into marriage. Buckley didn’t understand his mother’s decision. They’d been fine without Reverend John Whitehouse sharing their home, sharing his mother’s bed.
After the marriage license was signed and dated, his new stepfather drove them to Shoney’s Big Boy on Route 54. Buckley ate a hot fudge sundae while the reverend took advantage of the “sweet buffet deal,” filling four scratched and sweaty plates.
Buckley never remembered his mother being there. He wasn’t much of a witness.
No one in middle school chased or hit Buckley. Coach Flanagan warned from the start that physical contact belonged in physical sports. “Energy expended outside practice is wasteful.” He also said many less practical things like, “When you boys grow into men, the girls will squeeze your balls in a vise.”
No one hit Buckley and no one squeezed his balls.
Between September and Christmas break, someone stole his gym shoes and science report, but no one cared. Then someone urinated in Buckley’s locker. Buckley imagined this someone laughing as he zipped his pants, pulling a can of spray paint from his back pocket and tagging the locker
BASTARD
. The incident was not easy for Mont Blanc middle to ignore, especially since Buckley now had a father—a reverend, no less. Principal Clark called Buckley to his office. “Was the locker locked? Do you have a lock? Did you lose your lock?” Principal Clark was frustrated by Buckley’s apathy.
“It was my third lock this year,” Buckley said.
“Do you know who’s pulling this nonsense?”
“No, sir.”
“Me either, and I wouldn’t particularly give a crap, except that it needs to stop, and it needs to stop today. The Women’s Auxiliary has already gotten word of this. It’s an embarrassment.”
Buckley had no idea who disliked him so much that they’d go to this trouble. No one knew him well enough to hate him.
Janitor Jackson, like Buckley, stood before the
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