Lightning Rod

                                                      LIGHTNING ROD

By Noel Laflin

January 31, 2002



“What this old cabin needs is a flag pole,” I told David and David one balmy day. 

 “Yeah, that would be neat,” David T. responded.

“Cool,” said David H.  “Where do we get one?” he wondered aloud.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said I, looking proudly at the patched-together plywood shack, which I called home that summer of 1968.  “I spotted something behind the old warehouse that ought to work.  It’s in the junk pile, so I don’t suppose anyone would mind us liberating it for this patriotic use.  Follow me, boys!”

With that, three of Camp Ahwahnee’s finest trooped off in search of a flagpole. It was a humid July day in our mountain retreat.  Large thunderheads were sprouting in the east.  The smell of rain was in the air.  I was itchy to get this one project in before we all might be cooped up inside for a bit, once the expected downpour arrived. 

I guess we had just run out of projects at that particular point and time.  After all, we had repaired the old canvas roof on the cabin, shored up the thin walls, re-attached the dilapidated door, patched the rotten floor, then raked and outlined in rock the long pathway leading to the commissioner’s cabin located in “The Land of Nod,” otherwise known in camp as Area C, my humble home for the summer.  All of this we had done to the best of our young abilities.  I was fifteen and my two companions were ten apiece.  Between the three of us we totaled thirty-five years experience on this planet and thought we could take on any job.

We were Boy Scouts, after all.  Well, I was a Scout, (Eagle, at that, and now an official Staff member) and they were Weblo Scouts, which put them on the threshold of becoming true Scouts in another year.  It was good enough for us.  David and David were the sons of the camp director and one of the camp commissioners, respectively.  I reported to both of their fathers.  Somewhere along the way, I had become the boys’ unofficial baby sitter for the summer.  They, in turn, had become my unofficial slaves.  It was a good arrangement all around.  I was a kind lord and they were loyal subjects.  They undertook every pea-brained idea I proposed with unquestioned zeal.  It was either that, or my continual threats to send them back to their mothers’ care, something they both abhorred, being ten and surrounded with four hundred acres of forested play area for twelve weeks.  I suppose, in retrospect, that I was the lesser of two evils.  Nonetheless, we bonded; little brothers and big brother; extended siblings within the Scouting family.

“What kind of pole is it?” the first David inquired.

“Yeah, what’s it made of?” David number two, asked.  “And just how heavy is it going to be?  Maybe we should get a truck or something,” he suggested.  He had been on some of my scavenging trips prior to this and was mildly suspicious of just who would be carrying whatever needed carrying.

“Now, don’t get all jumpy on me,” I countered. “It’s not that heavy, I don’t think.   You’ll see when we get there.”  I kept the little ingrates in the dark, lest they suddenly remembered something they had forgotten to attend to, and leave me alone with the task at hand.  To be on the safe side, I threw out my ace card: “Say, your mothers’ don’t need either of you today, do they?” I asked sarcastically.

“Nope.”

“Nope.”

Very hasty responses indeed.  But I was satisfied.  We had been trudging through camp for a mile or so and were now in view of the warehouse.  We looped around to the back and started the hunt through piles of wood, old lockers and discards of every description.  The sky had darkened considerably. 

“Ah, ha!  Here’s the sucker!” I cried, and threw back an old green tarp revealing a fifteen-foot long metal pole stuck in an ancient car wheel filled with hardened cement.   We lifted the pole and righted the heavy round base.  I hadn’t a clue as to its original purpose, but it stood straight and tall and would not fall in a wind.  If a small pulley could be rigged at the top and quarter inch rope strung the length of the staff, it would indeed make the perfect flagpole.  The two Davids stood back in awe. 

“Dang, if that ain’t a flagpole,” David said.

“Dang right!” echoed David.

My boys were making me proud.

“OK, so let’s get a move on before someone spots us,” I suggested.  And before the rain hits, I thought to myself.

“I thought you said this was part of the junk pile,” one of the Davids said. 

“Well, one Scout’s junk is another Scout’s treasure,” I reminded him.  “Let’s not take any chances on someone suddenly deciding this should stay here.  We’ll take it the back way and avoid the main road, just in case we run into the ranger or one of your fathers.  This is just too good to pass up.  I’ll take the heavy end and you two grab a piece of the pole.  Let’s go.”

With that, we grunted and awkwardly lifted our prize. We slowly made our way across the upper parking lot and over the back trail - resting our heavy load occasionally. It was right before one of these rest breaks that the first large drops of rain began to pelt the path and settle the dust.  Bright lightning flashed on the not-too- distant horizon. Long rolls of thunder rumbled across our mountain.  The three of us looked at one another and then at the metal pole we were all holding.  We suddenly decided to take an unannounced break and without hesitation dropped our lengthy treasure to the ground and stepped back from it, just a bit.

“Isn’t this a metal pole?” asked David T.

“Well, . . .,” I started.

“And isn’t lightning attracted to metal?” David H. said, in the most accusing of voices.

“Well, technically yes,” I answered, as another flash bounced off the mountain and its thunder cousin cracked moments later.  “But you see, lightning always goes for the highest object, if it’s going to strike.  And you see, all of these pines are a lot taller than this measly pole or us.  I think we will be fine.  We’ve just got to hurry, that’s all.”  With that I made to lift my end of things once more and be on our way.  With some hesitation David and David finally bent down, as well, to resume the lifting and  marching.  It was about then that the combined flash and explosion above our heads threw us to the ground. 

The summer storm had moved in on us quicker than I had reckoned.  I had been counting the delay between flashes and thunderclaps and calculating the distance, as we have all been taught to do, from the earliest of ages. One would see the flash of light and begin the count: ‘A thousand one, a thousand two, a thousand three . . .’ and then boom!, the thunder would rumble.  That’s the theory anyway,  always a delay of some time, allowing you to figure just how many miles away the storm really was.  What happened above our heads and to the poor tree beside us was a different story, however.  The storm had moved in very quickly and was  directly over us apparently allowing both light and noise to hit simultaneously.  Lightning struck just above the tree to our right as the mother of all thunderclaps blew us down.  The ground shook.  There was ringing in my ears.  As I looked up at the tallest tree, there was the faintest wisp of blue smoke but no fire, fortunately.   The two Davids were both sitting on their butts, shaking their heads.  I think they, too, were hearing the distinct ringing of bells.

Another flash struck further west of us as thunder  quickly followed.  The storm was passing us by, and quickly.  Summer storms were always in a hurry to move on. We all sat still for a bit, still stunned, not ready to even stand. 

“Holy Smokes, that was close!” one of the Davids finally managed to say.  I couldn’t help but notice that his normally straight hair was now slightly standing on end.

“Oh, man.  I can’t hear any thing!” the other David yelled, unaware of just how loud he was speaking.  His curly hair had stayed in place but his eyes had enlarged in a considerable fashion.

We all just stayed in place for a while, letting the rain soak into us.  Eventually, I rose.

“Now, as I was saying, lightning usually goes for the highest thing in sight, metal notwithstanding.”

“Oh, shut up, Noel.  You nearly got us fried!” one of the Davids yelled.

“Yeah, real bright carrying this thing through a thunder and lightning storm,” the other David chimed in.  “You idiot!”

“OK, OK, I admit it may have been a bit foolhardy, but hey, no damage done.  I reached out and tried to smooth down David’s electrified hair.  It would not lay flat.  The other David still had the glare of a ‘deer-caught-in-the-headlights’ look in both eyes.  “Nope, no harm done, lads.  Looks like the storm has moved on.  Let’s get this thing up to the cabin and see how it’s going to look,” I finally concluded.  With that I picked up the heavy end once more and waited for them to match suit.

Begrudgingly they joined me.

The rest of the trek through camp was uneventful.  The storm had moved on, with the thunder growing more distant all the time.  The pole was finally put in place, hurriedly painted, and strung with a pulley, then rope and a flag flown that very day.  It added great charm to the old cabin, I thought.  Near-electrocution was a small price to pay for such a patriotic goal. 

But the two Davids never did share my sense of satisfaction in this job well done; not until, that is, I found all of my underwear hoisted aloft one morning, on the new flagpole, and they saluting it ever so irreverently.