As soon as it started to rain my father would disappear. Most people, when confronted by weather, seek shelter. Rain, snow, sleet, hail, sandstorm, you name it, but not my father. As soon as weather happened he made a mad dash to get involved. A miracle perhaps he was never struck by lightning. His philosophy was “Accidents happen to other people, so get out of my way.” I grew up in tornado alley where violent storms were commonplace. We were trained to run to the basement when the winds came.
We had food, a bunker to hide in, and entertainment in the newly released game of “Pong.”
The basement had small below ground windows that allowed one to look out but only in an upward direction. I would hide and watch as the massive trees were bent in half. A tornado siren wailing from the nearby town. And suddenly there would be a swoosh of dark green or black as my father swept by in his long coat, glistening with wetness. Water pouring off his hat in reflective torrents. A real man likes the feel of nature on his face.
Dad’s attitude and acceptance of the glorious discomforts of nature rubbed off on me. When the weather report comes with signs of action I begin to quiver, the thought of “what if?” permeates my being. Sleep comes in fits, contentment an impossibility. Torches pierce the night, waiting for the first flakes to fall. And when it comes, I go, regardless of time or duty. I feel it is my place in the world, my responsibility to feel the dry crack of the subzero or the blistering grit of the heat wave. The crystal hardness of frozen tears or tackiness of salt stains down a shirt stuck to my back.
It is in these times I have the conversations. As the flakes fly, searching for entrances in my armor, my mind drifts to only what matters. A clarity in the swirl of whiteness. Not in the world but of it. Connections and memories. Thoughts of meaning and enterprise. “What are you doing out here,” someone asks as they stop and question if I’m lost or need a ride. “Nothing,” I respond. “I’m just here, now.”
Looking toward the mountains I see the fury of the storm building. Not done with us quite yet. My fingers cold on the controls of the camera. From the corner of my eye I see a vision. A swirl of black or green, making way through the building drifts. I find tracks, muddled by fresh powder, masking the maker. My imagination runs with it. “Keep following,” a voice says, “See where it goes.” “See where the storm takes you.”
Comments 14
I love the quiet when it snows. No traffic until the plows go through. I was reminded of this one spring evening when I and the dog walked up to meet my daughter at her workplace during the first Covid lockdown. I’d only ever heard such quiet in the middle of the city when it snows. It was eerie. .
Author
Yes. It’s like white space in a book. White space is a THING. The silence is too.
Yes, I hear you…
You don’t experience life by hiding under your blanket at every uncomfortable thing that nature throws at you. Instead, embrace it, and really LIVE.
As kids we would watch from the porch of our 1812 farmhouse as the thunderstorm was racing across the fields toward us. The wind would pick up and a wall of ice cold air would hit as the thunderhead suddenly engulfed the sky over us turning day into night. An occasional tree exploding across the fields from lightning strikes and one time the chimney was hit and bricks joined the rain hitting the porch roof over our heads.
Later, older, questionably wiser, sailing up and down 60 ft swells just ahead of a hurricane that changed its route unexpectedly before turning out to sea. Or knowingly speeding to Long Beach Island because a “big one” was coming so we could see the storm over the ocean. Then running through mid-shin deep water cutting across our path to higher ground on the New Jersey Long Beach Island estuary before 1/3 of the barrier island that we were walking on just 30 minutes ago was swept out to sea.
There’s more. But yes, I hear you…
Author
Love exploding trees. I saw a recap of the Unbound 200 a few years ago and a lone tree next to the route gets hit and explodes.
There is nothing like meeting natural forces head on. My favourite was to head into Okanagan Lake when a thunder storm came over the hills: a warm wind blasting sand in your face, the placid lake suddenly heaving itself against the shore as the clouds darkened and piled up. You could stay in the lake for hours, the huge swells keeping you buoyant Once the lightening started spitting, it was best to come in and make your way onto the long abandoned, wind torn beach.
Author
My sis and I almost got smoked in Wyoming as kids. Close enough for it to blow my shirt back. Could feel it before it struck.
I grew up in tornado alley too. In a little town north of Amarillo, TX. Oh, the storms we would have! Watching them roll in from the plains. I was always outside too and I cherish the memories of those times. It’s the only thing I miss. Well, that and the real bbq.
Author
Some say tornados are punishment for living in Amarillo……..I’m kidding. I love to pester people who live in tornado alley. Amarillo worked well for George Straight.
I love your prose. When weather comes, the more severe the better. I remember being in my squad going 70 mph next to a corn field on a two lane highway and a cat 4 funnel was weaving back and forth seventy-five yards away in the field. I was headed to a pnb (pulseless, non-breather) about 4 miles away and I’d be the first one on scene because I was the only one not sheltered on that side of town until the rig (ambo) would get there 12 minutes after me. The sky was green and I was getting blown all over the road, the freight train sound so loud i couldnt hear the radio, thinking to myself, “best job ever”.
Author
That’s a solid moment, for sure. Cop cars, storms, dead people, or MOSTLY dead people. Any doughnuts? Just kidding!! That sound is so damn scary. So is the storm siren.
For a few years I purposely went to Hokkaido at it’s coldest, I’m always itching to get outdoors during a typhoon, and if it rains I know I’ll have most of the hiking trail to myself.
But it always amazes me how few people have realized how good it is mentally. There’s no better way to feel alive.
Author
I would love to join on one of those expeditions.
Nothing more evocative than the light caught by nightime snowflakes. It’s a photo you can *hear*, dead silence except the soft clomp clomp clomp of footsteps in fresh snow.
Author
I was trying to sneak up on a hawk yesterday and the damn snow kept giving me away.