I grew up in Florida, in a town about 45 minutes away from Orlando (Lightning Capitol of the Western Hemisphere). During the summertime, especially, it would rain every other day or so, and when it rained it almost always thundered heavily. Lightning storms were awesome; great branches of pure energy would hug the bottom of the clouds, stretch out for miles, then pop down on trees and unsuspecting golfers weilding lightning rods in the open ground. Sometimes, there were so many bolts of lightning hitting the area that the thunder just became a dull roar, punctuated by nearby blasts that you felt through your ribcage.

Now, I have a great respect for lightning; I generally don't go dancing in the rain during a thunderstorm (even though that's when it is the most fun)... I have an uncle who's been struck far more times than statistical average should allow. But I would sit out in the front porch and watch the lightning storms from the safety of my chair. As with the rain, most people tended to go deep inside the house when the thunderboomers came, but sitting on the porch gave the most awe-inspiring shows I've ever experienced. For most people, lightning was a source of some deep primal fear, but for me, it was a symphony of power and beauty.

On a side note, if you were ever fortunate enough to witness a rare lightning strike hit the dirt (which I never did), you could later go and unbury these really neat, intricately branching root structures made of glass.