Getting pelted by hail isn't an event that I'd heartily recommend to anyone. No, quite the contrary, I advise against it strongly.
I speak from the first person here.
Tuesday night was my encounter. A brutal one at that. I was in my back yard, looking at some potted vegetable and flower plants that I suppose I'll eventually get around to sticking in the ground. A very light rain was falling...not enough to send me ducking for cover yet...but the skies were brutally dark and I figured something nasty could be headed my way.
I was right.
I heard what sounded like gravel being dumped in the distance. Or popcorn popping. This should have been my warning cue to get under shelter or head to the house.
I only had a few more plants to move, though....and I get stubborn sometimes about completing a job, regardless of the consequences.
I looked up and saw it coming. White pieces of ice falling rapidly from the sky. Most about the size of a pea or small marble. I headed toward the back porch...about 50 feet away.
Then, it was if I was being poked and prodded by round objects. And, I was. Rapidly falling hail stones. Off the shoulder, on the leg...two on the arm and one right in the face. I covered my face with my hands and started running (at my age...more like a leisurely trot) toward the enclosed porch.
I was getting pummelled. Top of the head, legs,arms, torso and one big golf-ball sized sucker that nailed me on one of my hands that were protecting my face. I was running, cursing, laughing and hooting all at the same time. It seemed like a minute or so, it was probably less...before I reached the safety of the back porch door and went stumbling in.
One hailstone had even landed in my shirt pocket.
I didn't suffer any injuries. A few stings during the assault, but no permanent damage. (Depending on who you talk to, I suppose)
It true that you never forget the sound of a tornado when it is approaching. I'll never forget the sound of the one in 1974 when I lay on the ground fearing for my life under my golf bag on the seventh-hole fairway near Brownsboro Rd. on Crescent Hill Golf Course.
I'll also never forget the sound of approaching hail as well.
Battered but not beaten by the frozen frenzy, I can chuckle now a day after it. It wasn't too damn funny at the time, though.
Mad Dogs and Englishmen, the saying goes, don't have the sense to come in from the rain. Or sun. I always forget which.
Paulie now has acquired the sense to come in from the hail. All you have to do is listen.