Getting jolted by a lightning bolt (or two)

You would think that almost being struck by lightning in the morning would be the most exciting part of your day, wouldn’t you? I would have thought so, too — until it happened, and it wasn’t.

It started when my buddies Mike and Bill picked me up for a quick round of golf on Tuesday morning last week. We were going to sneak in a quick nine holes, followed by a beer (or two) and a taco (or two) at our favorite watering hole. Rain was forecast for the afternoon and evening, but we would hit the links by 8:30 or so in the morning, so we didn’t worry about getting “wet” until later in the morning when Tammy at the tavern pulled a pint (or two) for us.

But sometimes a weather forecast can miss by an hour (or two), and as we headed for the course, a few drops started pattering down on the windshield. Still, it wasn’t enough rain to worry about. Not yet. And we didn’t want to wait until later to golf, because we all had other plans for the afternoon.

But then the top of the cottonwood tree on the side of the road fifty yards ahead of us exploded in a flash of light, and we all jumped in our seats as the sky cracked open. Shattered tree bark and twigs rained down on the car as we sped past.

So…OK….

Coffee and a donut (or two) sounded pretty good right now — better than standing out in the open on the first tee with a metal rod in hand, waiting for the next lightning bolt to take aim.

We debated where to go, until Bill suggested a spot his wife likes to visit now and then. It wasn’t one of those places where you needed to learn Italian before you can get a cup of joe, but it wasn’t far from it. I would have preferred someplace a bit more down-to-earth, but hey, we had just come through a near-apocalyptic meteorological experience, so how much worse could it be than that?

Bill’s wife frequented this place often enough that she had an account where she could rack up points with every visit, so Bill punched in her code on the electronic keypad — which happened to be his home phone number. And because Bill and I used to carpool through our 33 years of working together until we retired, it occurred to me that his was the only phone number (other than mine) that I still have committed to memory.

Well, that’s not true, exactly. Because I also still remember the phone number I had when I was a little kid growing up in Elmwood Park, just outside of the Chicago city limits. That number was GL3-0420. The GL stood for Gladstone, because phone exchanges back then began with the first two letters of a word.

Bill remembered his childhood number, too.

Mike couldn’t remember his, but he recalled his Grandma’s, who lived in Iowa way back then. That exchange was only one letter and three numbers.

Iowa. Go figure.

Like me, they couldn’t remember more than one or two other numbers, although we all had dozens of vitally important contacts saved in our cell phones, just a single touch away.

I looked around the little coffee shop, which was filled with people just like the three of us — old farts (and fartettes) with enough free time in their lives to pop out for a nice cup of coffee and a donut (or two) on a Tuesday morning while the rest of the younger world is working. And it occurred to me that I could bet each of them a dollar that they couldn’t remember more than three phone numbers — not counting numbers on TV commercials (Hudson3-2700) or the oldies station on the radio (634-5789). I reckoned I could win enough bets to pay for my five-dollar coffee and donut (or two).

And then Mike, Bill and I did what old farts do over coffee and a donut (or two). We wondered how we would call a friend (or son or daughter) on a pay phone if we ever lost our cell phone with all our contacts listed.

Or where we could find a pay phone.

Or a phone book, for that matter.

And we wondered: “How did we get here?” with cell phones in our pockets that did the work of remembering every phone number (or address, or birthday, or encyclopedia entry) we needed to know, in a world so different in so many ways from the world we were born into.

And then, our coffee and donuts finished, we left the coffee shop and went on with the rest of our day, because as I said, we all had plans.

My afternoon plan was to drive to Northwest Community Hospital to visit my granddaughter, who had just delivered a baby girl the night before — my first great-grandchild.

A great-granddaughter!

Let’s recap: I have a daughter. My daughter has a daughter. And now my daughter’s daughter has a daughter. One more stride my great-grandparents’ blood has taken on the long march from the past into the future.

As I drove to the hospital, I shook my head at the wonder of it all. My great-grandparents are gone. So, too, my grandparents. And my parents. And, recently, my wife.

I will be next, but that’s OK. My daughter’s daughter’s daughter is proof that it’s OK.

As I said, you would think that almost being struck by lightning in the morning would be the most exciting part of your day, wouldn’t you? I would have thought so too, until it happened, and it wasn’t.

Because when I held little Anastasia Rose in my arms — my daughter’s daughter’s daughter — tears rolling down my cheeks, I felt a lightning-bolt (or two) of love dash through my heart.

And I wondered: “How did I get here?”

Author, musician and storyteller TR Kerth is a retired teacher who has lived in Sun City Huntley since 2003. Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com. Can’t wait for your next visit to Planet Kerth? Then get TR’s book, “Revenge of the Sardines,” available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online book distributors.

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