One morning this week we experienced a brief but ferocious thunderstorm that turned the sky nighttime dark with blinding flashes of lightning and almost simultaneous booms of thunder. It was jarring for all of us, and while Bud never crossed the threshold into full-fledged anxiety, he spent several storm-filled minutes pacing and suggesting ways to make it stop. He remained the model of grace under pressure and was extraordinarily polite, if increasingly persistent, with his requests. I transcribed the monologue as he gave it. It went something like this:
"Can the storm go home now?"
"Say 'Let the storm go!' Everybody: 'Let the storm go!'."
"Can you make the storm go with our umbrella, please?"
"I need you to let the storm let go, Mom."
"There are too many storms, Mom."
"Can you turn the storm off?"
"Can the storm run out of battery?"
"Can you let out the battery, please?"