Twas a dark and stormy night....

That classic first line of a bad novel is true in North Texas. We're surrounded by tornado warnings, though ours has just expired. My daughter had hail at her house, while I relished about five minutes of steady, medium rain--the good kind of rain, just not enough of it for our drought. All evening lightning has flashed around the sky and thunder rolled over us. As my Mom used to tell me, the gods are bowling. As long as the sky doesn't turn green and no rotating clouds are reported, I enjoy a good storm. Tonight we're being warned to stay away from drafts because of lightning--otherwise I'd throw open my greenhouse windows and let some of that rain-freshened air in the house. It's cooled nicely outside but is still stuffy inside.
Once when my four children were little, we left them with a nanny for an afternoon. When the sky turned green, I called the nanny and said, "You do know what to do with the children in a bad storm, don't you?" We had a house with a basement. "Oh yes, ma'am," she said. "What?" Now I have no basement, but Sophie and I will go to the big closet in my bedroom, though I've never had to do that in twenty years.
When I was a kid, we had a cabin in the Indiana Dunes State Park, at the very food of Lake Michigan, high up on a dune--three flights of stairs from the beach. One of my great delights was to watch a storm roll down the entire length of that huge lake, cresting in wild whitecaps as it reached the beach and bringing with it rain, lightning and thunder. Maybe I didn't know enough to be fearful, and I'm thankful to my parents for not teaching me that fear.
Jacob on the other hand is fearful of storms. The other night he saw three lightning flashes, and I suggested he go to the back door because Sophie would want to come in. He insisted I go with him, explaining, "You know how lightning frightens me." Once there he stood inside the open door and called, "Come in, Sophie. It's lightning." About a lot of things he's fearless and brave, but storms get him.
Me? I'm actually hoping for more storms--my new plants need the rain. Just not violent winds or tornadoes, please.

Stormy weather

As we say in Texas, it's "fixin' to come a gullywasher." We are under a severe storm alert until some time later tonight, and I have the TV on, muted, to watch for weather updates. Betty and I just had wine and crab cakes on a restaurant patio, and there was that wonderful sense of anticipation, with people glancing frequently at the rapidly darkening sky.
Several years ago, when there was a tornado in Fort Worth, she and I sat in a restaurant and watched the sky turn green. Then the heavy rain began, and we shrugged and ordered another glass of wine. The tornado that tore up downtown passed within a mile of where we were. Later, her husband looked at the two of us in amazement and said, "I can't believe you just sat there and ordered another drink." Even with all the windows, we were safer than if we'd ventured out, but I did think maybe the restaurant should have alerted customers. What if we had to dive under the tables?
I love watching a good storm, though Texas has taught me to be a bit cautious. Once when my children were little, there was a storm warning and the sky turned green. My ex- and I were running errands, and I called home and asked the nanny if she knew what to do with the children--we lived in a house with a basement, a Texas rarity, at the time. She said, "Oh, yes ma'am. What?"
When I was growing up, we spent two weeks every summer at a cabin perched high on a dune at the very foot of Lake Michigan. I loved to watch storms roll down the lake, gathering force as they came, churning up the water into high whitecaps. On the back side of the cabin was forest and all was always serene there even when it was wild on the lake side.
Jacob is terrified of storms. If he hears thunder, he rushes to look and see if the sky is green. On stormy nights, he says, "I think I better sleep with you tonight." I would love to share my delight in storms with him but I'm not sure how to do it.
I pray, of course, that we have no tornado, no damaging winds but a good heavy soaking rain. Texas, once again--or still--in the throes of a drought, needs it.

Did you ever swim in Lake Michigan?

Memoir class always gives me food for thought, and tonight was no exception. Sometimes pieces go in clusters, and tonight they were all childhood memories. One that clearly struck a note with me was written by a woman my age about her summers at a cottage on Lake Michigan. Everything rang familiar--the hot sand in summer, the icy cold waters of the lake, the suspense of the first trip to the beach to see what had washed away during the winter. All these years later, details crowd her memories, the kind of details that make an experience come alive. Oh yes, I may talk to her about avoiding passive voice and dangling modifiers, but it was a great piece. And those of us who grew up on Lake Michigan shared stories--the undertow, the polio scare and being pulled out of the water with blue lips, being taught to swim parallel to the shore.
Another piece was a woman's tribute to her father, chock full of the small moments she remembered with him--trips to the grocery store with the butcher counter in a corner and the butcher in a bloody apron, riding standing in the front of the car, the fear she had of her parents dying and then finding her dad lying on the living room floor with a nervous stomach one day, the family's belief in Pepto Bismol as a cure-all. She didn't need to tell us she adored her father and he, her--every incident shouted it out. And her opening ws funny--she was Andy Mac until she was born and turned out to be a girl. This one made me think of how different things were back then--no seat belts, no central air, no sophisticated cancer treatment in a small Texas town--when the diagnosis came it was too late.
A woman not much older that my kids told of the night she gave a farewell party for her best friend and people she didn't know came. She was horrified--and afraid--when she spotted a beer. Made me think of the parties my children gave--and some they gave when I was out of town and thought they were old enough to be trusted. They told me about them years later, and now I can laugh about it. Interestingly enough, this woman's mother is also in the class, and I am awed by the fact that they are so open with each other, though I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise. My kids are open with me, and for the most part I am with them--some things would only make them uncomfortable, and I don't share those. There's no reason.
But back to memories: everyone exclaimed over the detail in which these women remembered their childhoods, but someone suggested that once you begin to write, it all comes flooding back, and someone else said it's all there in your brain. It just has to come to the forefront.
We laugh a lot at these stories--like the little girls who thought they had eaten poison and would die any minute, so they invited their nemesis, the girl they hated to play with, to come over if she would taste their "lemonade." They figured if they were going to die, she might as well too. Of course all lived to tell the tale, and now the writer is appalled at their cruelty. We dismissed it saying children five and six don't understand the finality of death.
Another woman said she was bothered about presenting because her life hasn't been funny. I assured her it's all in the way you tell it, and that gave her an idea.
I learn so much each week from these women--and we share so much camaraderie. Have  you thought about your childhood? Tried writing about it? See what extra memories writing might bring up.