The Self-Appointed Storm Broadcaster and Boss

Summer thunderstorms aren’t exactly a new invention; they’ve been around since time began.

I was sitting at my usual hangout recently when the sky opened up. Heavy rain and thunder with several flashes of lightning. Then the power goes out.

It’s pretty standard stuff for an Ontario, Canada summer with three or four thunderstorms rumbling through from April through September. They break the stifling heat and humidity, and what follows are more pleasant but still hot summer temperatures. Most of the time the power stays on but on this occasion it didn’t. 

What wasn’t standard was what happened inside. Within seconds, one person appointed themselves the building’s official storm broadcaster and boss – and I mean broadcaster, as in loud – and no one asked for it. 

“It’s really coming down now!” Yeah, we can see it too. 

“Look at it come down on this side of the restaurant!” Uh, huh. I’m pretty sure there isn’t a separate weather system on the other side of the restaurant. 

“Look at that lightning!” Yes, it’s lightning. It usually happens during thunderstorms. 

“The power just went out.” We know, we’re here too. 

“It’s supposed to last another two hours.” Thanks for the update we can all get via the weather apps on our phones. Yes, believe it or not, we have phones, too. 

“I think it’s slowing down.” Was the fact that it is slowing down your first clue?

“My sister just texted. She doesn’t have power either.” Why are you telling the restaurant this? Your sister lives near Ottawa – 150 miles away. 

Every update was delivered loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear.

The commentary wasn’t providing information. It was simply narrating what everyone else was already experiencing. 

The person even had the audacity to start telling the staff what they should be doing. I couldn’t help but think, “Last I checked, there is the manager and assistant manager on duty; they’ve been through this before and are well-trained with at least fifteen years of restaurant management experience between them.” This one self-appointed boss was a regional manager at a fast-food chain that the other regulars have been reminded of oh so many times, so naturally her authority extended to this pub-style restaurant. Uh, you have no authority here, and you’re not dealing with a bunch of 16-year-old kids at their first job; you are dealing with industry veterans and probably pissing them off, so zip it. 

The people responsible for handling the situation were…handling the situation.

Then came my favorite line of the afternoon.

“Welcome to Buckhorn!”

Really? Because I’m fairly certain thunderstorms aren’t unique to Buckhorn, Ontario. I’m also reasonably sure temporary power outages aren’t some quaint local tradition found nowhere else on the planet. 

Surely we’ve all lived through enough thunderstorms to know how this works. The rain, thunder, lightning, and strong winds come, and sometimes the power goes out for a few hours. You wait out the storm or make payment arrangements in the restaurant (if there is still no power) and head home. 

Growing up, nobody felt the need to provide a live weather broadcast every thirty seconds. You watched the rain from the porch or inside, maybe counted the seconds between lightning and thunder, and got on with life.

Now everyone has six weather apps, radar imagery, notifications, and an irresistible urge to announce every observation.

At one point, I realized the thunderstorm wasn’t even the loudest thing anymore. The megaphone mouth was. It took everything I had not to say, “Will you shut up!” and “You’re the same age as I am; is this your first thunderstorm and power outage?”

Now, to be fair, not everyone was the same. The fellow sitting beside me spent most of the storm quietly asking questions that I sometimes, unseen to him, rolled my eyes at but answered politely while thinking of smart-ass answers. 

“Did it rain here last night?” You mean inside the restaurant? You live in the same town; what do you think? 

“How long did it last?” I didn’t time it. 

“How long do you think this one will last?” As long as it does. 

At least he was soft-spoken.

Next time I’ll be prepared.

“Wednesday’s storm lasted 78 minutes and left about seven millimeters of rain. Today’s cell appears to be tracking slightly longer, but I’ll continue monitoring the situation and provide updates every five minutes.”

If we’re going to do play-by-play, we might as well commit to it.

Eventually I’d had enough. Not because of the storm that was moving away from the area, but because of the soundtrack.

I quietly gathered my things and headed home with a mild headache, opened a window, and waited for the weather to do what summer thunderstorms have always done. Pass. The power came back on, and life returned to normal. 

If the conversation and commentating in that room was any indication, social media was probably already filled with photos of dark clouds, screenshots of radar maps, and urgent reports that, yes, it’s raining and the power is out on Maple Street.

Thanks for the update.