The Trouble with Newfoundland Thunderstorms

A rainbow in New World Island, Newfoundland and Labrador

I’m not one of those people who enjoy thunderstorms.

When the sky darkens and the first flashes of lightning appear, some people head for the window to watch the show. I start wondering whether I should unplug the television and hunker down in the basement.

I blame old newspapers.

I’ve spent years reading old Newfoundland newspapers, and they are an excellent source of strange stories, local history and reasons to fear the weather. I’ve come across too many accounts of thunderstorms crossing the island, with lightning striking houses, windows exploding, chimneys falling and worse.

In my rational moments, I know that most Newfoundland thunderstorms are nothing to worry about. I mean, these days our houses are better grounded, right?

Still, rationality has to compete with the power of those old stories. And, more often than I’d like to admit, the newspapers win.

So when the sky flashes, I don’t just see lightning; I see a catalogue of horrors.

Like what happened in Plate Cove in July 1948.

Plate Cove

 

It was a perfectly ordinary Friday afternoon until about 2 p.m., when a heavy storm blew in and, for the next twenty minutes, the town was pelted with hail. Most of it was about the size of peas, but some stones measured more than an inch across — large enough to take a serious crack at the community.

More than 100 windows were smashed. Hail tore felt from the roofs of houses and stores, and when the ice finally stopped falling, a heavy rain followed, flooding many of the already damaged buildings.

And then there was the hail itself. So much of it accumulated on the ground that, in the middle of July, Plate Cove was left under a thick white blanket.

It took hours for the last traces of ‘winter’ to disappear.

That sounds bad enough, but the storm had something much nastier in store down the coast in Hant’s Harbour.

Hant’s Harbour

 

At the Smith family home, the lightning struck with devastating force — hitting the house, not once, but twice.

The first bolt hit the house with enough force to send a radio flying across the living room, crashing through part of the opposite wall. That would have been quite enough excitement for one afternoon.

The storm, however, had more in store.

The next bolt hit the chimney, demolishing it. Taking a chunk of the side of the house with it. Inside the kitchen, the force of the strike tore the wood stove loose and sent it tumbling over.

Mrs. Smith was spared serious injury by a matter of seconds. Just before the lightning struck, she had stepped into the pantry. It was a small decision that kept a frightening story from becoming a tragic one.

They were very lucky no one died.

Trouble With History

It’s stories like these that explain why I’ve never quite learned to enjoy thunderstorms.

Of course, I know most storms pass without incident.

Usually, there’s nothing to worry about.

But then the sky flashes. The thunder rolls. And the past doesn’t seem so distant. Then I imagine someone, a hundred years from now, researching the early 21st century and wondering why I was standing so stupidly close to a window during a thunderstorm.

See, that’s the trouble with history: you can never be entirely sure when you’re about to make it.

• Sources & Further Reading

  1. Furious Downpour of Hail, Evening Telegram, July 20, 1948

  2. Bonavista Notes, Observer Weekly, July 27, 1948

  3. Lightning Causes Damage, Observer Weekly, July 20, 1948

  4. Dwelling Hit, Bay Roberts Guardian, July 24, 1948

  5. Hailstone Storm, Bay Roberts Guardian, July 24, 1948