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Your mother was a big woman with a loud voice, and your father was a small, quiet, contemplative man, who liked to read and daydream, not that he got much chance. Your mother was always organizing. Block parties, church socials, girls’ nights out. She had a veritable gang of followers, most of whom were afraid of her, the loud voice, the insistant questioning, and the mild, constant bullying.

Block parties were not too bad, unless it rained, in which case your mother would dragoon fifty or so wet neighbors into your little house, and your dad would spend the day feeding the wet crowd, and mopping up the rain drippings. When it didn’t rain, your dad had to stand out in the broiling sun, cooking hotdogs, which he hated (cooking and hotdogs, he hated them both). Your mother would circulate, organizing games, extracting whatever gossip she could, dragging recalcitrant neighbors from the dark corners of their houses, where they had fled from the implacable ‘fun’.

Then one day, the day of the monthly block party, dad was cooking and sweating, and mom was galloping around, shouting at everyone who did not manifest the symptoms of extreme ‘fun’.  Mom kept ladling sausages and hamburgers on to a big plate, and you were instructed to fill the mountain of buns that heaped on the trestle table, and then dish the sizzling food to all and sundry, but you had only filled half the buns when she snatched them away, and began doling them out; on that day something unexpected happened. One minute the sky was clear and the sun broiling and the next minute everything went black, almost like an eclipse of the sun, except that it was thunder clouds and the sky opened up and deposited bathtubs of water on the guests, and mom shrieked and dad looked up in surprise, his wispy hair dripping and his shirt and apron soaked. Everyone headed for your house, except mom and dad, who were too thunderstruck to react.

Then lightning struck, a big, fat, sizzling blue bolt that bored down into the barbecue, instantly cooking all the meat and roasting the corn and potatoes and drying a circular patch around the pit. Mom and dad were on either side of the pit, and you saw mom’s hair rise in spikes while orange sparks shot out of dad’s astonished hands.

They staggered into the house, and mom was unusually quiet. Dad however was all fired up and he circulated amongst the guests, handing out towels, reassuring, joking, and talking a blue streak.  And not long after everyone went home.

Mom recovered after a few days, but never fully. She was quieter and less bossy, and everyone liked her better that way. Dad calmed down a bit after a few days, but he seemed more cheerful and outgoing, and less of a daydreamer. He used to help mom with the social events which were a lot less tense after the transformation. They got on much better, sharing the social duties, and mom even started to cook, and read a few books. All in all, that particular block party turned out very well.