The Lightning and the Bull

Arthur sat on his front porch swing, the old chains creaking in time with the summer evening. His granddaughter, twelve-year-old Emma, sat beside him, watching the storm clouds gather in the west.

"Grandpa, tell me about Grandma again," Emma said, resting her head on his shoulder.

Arthur smiled, his hand absently rubbing the old bronze **bull** statue on the porch rail—a paperweight his wife had cherished for fifty years. "Your grandmother, she knew I was bull-headed from the day we met."

He pointed to the telephone pole at the corner of the yard. "Back in 1972, I was up in that bucket truck, splicing a broken telephone **cable** during the worst thunderstorm we'd had in years. The dispatcher ordered everyone down, but I kept working. Someone needed that line restored—an old woman alone, maybe needing to call her family."

Emma leaned closer. "Were you scared?"

"Terrified," Arthur laughed softly. "Then it happened—a bolt of **lightning** struck the pole I was attached to. The bucket dropped six feet. The surge threw me against the side, knocked me cold. When I woke up in the hospital, who do you think was sitting beside my bed, holding my hand?"

"Grandma."

"She was the nurse who'd been on shift when they brought me in. She said I was lucky to be alive. Said someone up there must have plans for me." Arthur's voice thickened. "She gave me a lecture about stubbornness that I've never forgotten. Then she asked if I'd like to have dinner with her once I could walk again."

"And you said yes?"

"Well, I wasn't completely foolish," Arthur winked. "Forty-seven years of marriage later, I still think getting struck by lightning was the best thing that ever happened to me. Sometimes, sweet girl, the things that nearly kill us are exactly what save us."

The first raindrops began to fall. Emma took his hand, squeezing tight.

"Grandpa?"

"Yes, honey?"

"I'm glad you were bull-headed that day."

Arthur kissed her forehead. "Me too, Emma. Me too."