Legends can change with like a bolt from the blue

By Jerry Barksdale for The News Courier

March 20, 2008 08:36 pm

— Mama wasn’t afraid of lightning. She attended church three times a week, lived a Christian life and prayed daily. The Lord would protect her. That was before lightning struck her house and sent ceiling plaster raining down onto the bed where she slept.
That rattled her.
Concluding that the Lord provides more help to those who help themselves, she installed lightning rods on her roof. A neighbor was concerned that the rods would attract lightning and strike her house.
“Buy your own lightning rods,” advised Mama.
For some reason lightning was drawn to the area.
As the years passed, Mama’s health deteriorated. She suffered several mini-strokes, which damaged her memory. Eventually, she sold her 1972 Buick LeSabre, scooted around on a walker and ceased attending Sunday church service.
Every Sunday at noon, I drove over to Athens from Huntsville and took her out for lunch and then a ride through the countryside. When I entered the front door, she was always seated in her easy chair, dressed and eager to go.
On a spring day, I arrived at noon, as usual, and noticed that her yard was littered with small limbs. Obviously a storm had passed through the night before.
I helped Mama to the door, set her walker on the sidewalk and was assisting her down the front step when she stopped midway and turned to me: “Did I tell you that lightning struck and killed five of the neighbor’s dogs last night?”
“No ma’am, you didn’t.”
“Yeah, killed all five of ‘em.”
“That must be a record for dogs killed by lightning,” I said.
I thought about the horror of the scene – fried dog hair and flesh scattered everywhere, smoking and stinking. Phew. The massacre of five dogs by one bolt of lightning had to be a first for Athens. I thought about reporting it to the Guinness Book of Records. Finally, something notable had occurred in Athens. I told the story to scores of my astonished friends.
“Doggone, that’s really something!” said one.
The following Sunday I arrived at noon to find Mama in her chair, dressed and ready to go. I was helping her out the door when she stopped.
“Did I tell you that lightning struck and killed five of the neighbor’s dogs?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Yeah, it killed all five of ‘em.”
Months rolled by. Every Sunday was the same. Mama always stopped midway out the door and asked, “Did I tell you that lightning struck and killed five of the neighbor’s dogs?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said, paying absolutely no attention, having tuned her out long ago.
One Sunday, while I was assisting her out the door, she stopped as usual and said, “Did I tell you that lightning struck and killed two of the neighbor’s dogs?”
I froze in my tracks.
“What? I thought you said five dogs were killed!”
“No, it was two,” she said, nonchalantly.
“For years, you told me it was five dogs.”
“It was two.”
I don’t know if Mama’s rods drew the lightning that killed the dogs or not. I do know that Athens’ chance to be listed in the Guinness Book of Records had suddenly vanished.
It demonstrates the fleeting nature of fame – here one minute and gone the next.