Of storms, trees, and happy hour

 

We just had a lovely storm come through my little corner of the world, the kind with no hail, no wind, little lightning, but dark skies, lots of thunder, and a gentle rain. I have the patio doors open and thoroughly enjoyed that fresh, wet smell. And the temperature, which had been in the low nineties, cooled down about twenty degrees. A neighbor emailed that she’s like Sophie—nervous about the thunder.

And that triggered a memory for me. When I was a kid, we had a cabin, really primitive, in the Indiana dunes. No electricity, no plumbing—we carried drinking water up three flights from the beach, used cistern water from a pump to wash dishes and then scalded them (probably not as sanitary as my mom thought at the time), and used an outhouse for private needs.

The cabin sat on a high dune at the very foot of Lake Michigan, and one of the joys of our summer times there was to watch a storm roll down the length of the lake, stirring up giant whitecaps in the water and turning the sky black. Bless my mom, for she taught us way back then to relish a storm and never be afraid. To this day I love a good storm, though I admit in Texas the possibility of tornados and hail make me nervous. And I have lived through a few storms that caused major damage, like one that took out my entire cookbook collection because the roof leaked.

After the storm passed tonight, the sky lightened, and for a while it had that eerie glow, a sort of greenish cast, that the atmosphere sometimes gets after a storm. I do understand that once again there was damage to the north of us, and I pray there were no injuries.

Most people worry about trees being damaged in our Texas spring storm. No such worries for us, because a huge branch—I mean huge!—fell off the old elm tree in front of the house this afternoon, well before the storm. No reason, except maybe age. It just fell. Since it is in the boulevard—the strip between sidewalk and street—it is the city’s tree, so I called the forestry department of Parks and Recreation. They made sure it isn’t blocking a sidewalk or a street (it isn’t) and said they will come look. We’ve lost big branches from that tree before, and each time I call the city I am afraid they’ll just take the whole tree down. It is probably a hundred years old—the age my house will be next year. I’m sure the house—and my daughter and her family who live in it now—would feel naked and exposed without that big tree which somehow seems to anchor us to our world. Then again, it does cross my mind that the whole tree could fall in the direction of the house. An arborist once explained to me that they are in the business of saving trees, not cutting them down, so I will wait to see what happens with this one.

A friend whose company I much enjoy came for happy hour tonight, and we timed it just perfectly. It was pleasant and lovely, and we caught up on each other—it had been too long. First we were waiting for vaccines, and then the weather was not patio weather, and then once we could be inside, she was sick, so tonight was a treat even though she had to leave for a meeting and I had a Zoom event, which it turned out I couldn’t log into because I had an invalid i.d. But just as we decided we had to go inside, I felt the first drops of rain hit my face. Good timing.

A good day. I wrote 1200 words and felt like I still have some momentum on my new project. And I heard from the editor to whom I sent my Helen Corbitt project—he assured me they would give it serious consideration and said nice things about my stature as a Texas writer. Everybody loves ego strokes, and I’m no exception.

Storm watch until eleven, so I’m going to lock up for the night, get in my jammies, and read the mystery I’m enjoying—Susan Van Kirk’s Death Takes No Bribes. Stay safe, everyone.

Lake Michigan, sand dunes, and nostalgia

Whenever I feel the need for a place of retreat, I go in my mind to a certain spot in the Indiana Dunes. It was about halfway between the shore of Lake Michigan and our cabin on the top of the ridge. At twilight, you could watch the sun sink behind the skyscrapers of Chicago. Sometimes you could listen to the lake gently push small waves ashore; other times you could hear louder sounds of waves crashing. When storms came, you could watch them roll the length of the lake, to end with whitecaps thundering on shore and sometimes reaching dangerously close to the first level of cabins. I used to go to my favorite spot often with our female collie mix, inappropriately named Timmy,

Our cabin was rough to say the least. No plumbing, no electricity. The front of the house faced the lake; the back, a lovely deep woods—except the outhouse was down the hill in the woods. I hated to go at night, even when my mom went with me. The refrigerator was a box on a pulley, so it sank deep in the ground; once a week, the iceman cometh—literally, to drop a huge block of ice down the hole. You always put the milk in the bottom shelf where it would stay coolest. For lamps we had kerosene or Aladdin, though my dad worried constantly about turning them too high, so we never had enough light to read by at night. But the nighttime smell of the woods and the lake was so tranquilizing—I’m sure I never slept that soundly since.

We had to hike a mile, through the woods, from where we could park our car to the cabin, carrying in clothes, groceries, etc. I think I could find my way through those trails even now, though it was another thing I didn’t like to do at night. The family with whom we shared the cottage walked the beach, but we weren’t really beach people except for swims and baths in the lake. I sunburned easily and after a bout of sunstroke was never again comfortable in the sun. But I loved the woods.

Those days were magic to me, and I am often overcome with longing for them. Sweet corn fresh from the field, buckets full of raspberries for 50 cents—everything tasted better. Today, the state of Indiana has torn down all the cottages—yes, Thomas Wolfe, you really can’t go home again. And I’m not sure I’d feel safe in those woods. But I think everyone needs a retreat to which they can go in their mind. And that’s mine—my spot of refuge and renewal.