When you move a fair distance, there are some things you expect to miss, like local restaurants, your mail carrier, your shortcuts on the back roads. The knick on the tree you made ten years ago while trying to catch a flyaway frisbee. Stuff like that.
Sometimes, though, you find yourself pining for lunacy.
In Indiana, the last three to four months of the year are overcast. Dismal gray. Within a year of moving to Maryland, my brother expressed my thoughts when he complained at the lack of gray days. Lunacy!
Another rabid lunacy is the number of Midwesterners I've met who miss storms. Not the paltry little booms people in Baltimore mistake for storms, but the regular, seasonal tornado warnings with all of the associated happy memories of hanging out in the bathtub or basement with a candle and a radio.
It gets worse when you realize your lunacy is a nightmare in disguise. Like the time I slept through an F3 in College Park because I assumed all advanced civilizations had tornado sirens. Or living on the top floor of an apartment with no accessible windowless rooms on the ground floor (let alone a basement). Or that lightning causes fires, like the one that burned out 24 apartment units nearby. Or that it can surge and fry computers. Leave people without power for weeks. Lunacy.
But come every storm, the moment I hear a smattering of thunder, I gleefully clip on my weather radio and watch the radar online, hoping this one will be a nice rumbler with a bit of hail. You can take the gal out of the midwest, but you can't take the midwest out of the gal.
It eventually got so bad that I actually baited the Baltimore sky on Facebook last night:
Enough random thunder, already! Everyone knows you're all bark and no bite. Stop whetting my anticipation and then failing to properly storm.
Naturally, this was followed by two tornado warnings. Last night, I loved Maryland and wanted the Midwest to stay far, far away. Anything is preferable to waking up your babies out of a sound sleep.