~ SUMMER STORMS ~

I wish summer would never end. Even if there’s patches of clouds or cool weather, each day is most welcome. “Good morning, Mary Sunshine,” we greet each other, and end up together with the finish. “You used to come at ten o’clock, and now you come at noon.” But there are also days I dread, when there’s storms, those dreaded thunderstorms that shake the whole house in the middle of the night.

Crackling bolts of lightning flash through our pulled-down window shades, lighting up the whole bedroom in flickering terror, followed by booming thunder crashes. Rain pounds heavily on the glass panes. Winds howl fiercely, rattling the windows, as if the storm is trying to get inside our house.

I lie wide awake in bed with the covers over my head. I know the rest of the house must be awake by now too, but no one says anything, not even Catherine, who’s in bed next to me. Her breathing sounds different when she’s awake.

Soon Mama begins her ritual walk through the house, checking doors, making sure windows are tightly closed. I take a quick peek as she tiptoes into our room, watching her shadow move about in the darkness. I want to call out, “I’m afraid.” But I know her answer would only be, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” And even though we don’t talk, I feel a bit safer after she leaves.

I feel much more protected inside the house, under my covers. But that’s when storm stories begin rattling around in my head. There’s this one Catherine tells about the night she was sleeping in this old cast iron bed, her window open just a crack.

“A bolt of lightning streaks in, lights up the whole room. The bed sparks all over, then the bright spinning fireball streaks out the same way it came in, all in just a few seconds.” Catherine claims she was stunned stiff and shudders each time she retells the story.

Mama tells her, “It was probably just part of a bad dream.”

Catherine swears it really happened and she usually doesn’t make up stories. Being the oldest, she’s the most serious, the one we look up to.

We sleep in a wooden bed now. Even the cross above our bed is wooden. I’m not sure why we don’t have the iron bed anymore, or whatever happened to it. Mama says it was just too old to keep.

Mama tells us stories too, about farms that were hit by lightning. All the buildings burned up, even the animals. She saw it happen once, from far away.

“No telephones, no fire engines, and no way to save those farms,” she would always lament.

She says that’s why barns and houses have lightning rods on their roofs to direct the lightning into the ground. I often wondered why those tall thin spires with round glassy balls were on top of farm buildings. Could people maybe wear lightning rods? Might that keep them safer?

Benjamin Franklin once got lightning to hit his kite and key, but he did that on purpose and lived to tell about it. There are people who don’t live to tell about such things, according to Mama and her stories. There was even this man who had his hair turn white from lightning. Another had all his clothes burned off.

After Mama leaves, I close my eyes real tight and stay hiding under the covers.

But the thunder still rumbles, and I can see lightning flash right through my closed eyelids. I lie stiff, not moving; praying over and over, till it finally dies down. I’m still afraid to go to sleep, because sometimes storms come back. But after a long while, I do sleep. Waking up the next morning, it all seems like a bad dream.

But the big daytime storm I remember most was not a bad dream. It was real.

Every once in awhile, Mama goes to visit Auntie Stacia, who lives a few blocks away. Mama says she needs to get away from family sometimes. She usually takes Mitzy in the baby buggy, and one of us kids can go along, but only one. I always beg to be the one, because I like to go visiting. Even though I don’t talk much, I still like to listen, and Mama and Auntie Stacia talk about things I never get to hear otherwise.

It’s a warm breezy day. I have on my new red and white sun-suit with a matching hat Mama made for me. Mitzy is in her new pink jumper, and Mama has on her Sunday dress, summer hat, and nice shoes. Mama puts the sponge cake she just baked into her metal cake carrier, then puts it into the baby buggy. It’s for Auntie Stacia’s birthday, which is not today, but Mama says, “It’ll keep.”

Sometimes she lets me push the baby buggy alone. It’s a gray wicker buggy with a fat round hood and nice blue lining. Mitzy likes to sit up and watch everything along the way. People stop and look at Mitzy.

“What a cute baby,” they say. She’s wearing her pink summer bonnet, and her cheeks are rosy. She shakes her rag doll all around. I think she’s cute, too.

As we walk along, I’m so happy to make this trip I feel like skipping. Then, all of a sudden, I hear it—thunder! Mama quick looks up at the sky. I do too. There’s big black clouds moving in fast and it’s getting darker. Mama begins to walk faster and keeps looking at the sky. There’s a big flash of lightning, followed by a loud crack of thunder. I’ve never been away from home in a storm before.

What are we going to do?

“Hurry,” Mama says, “We only have three more blocks to go.”

I try to keep up, helping to push the buggy, my feet stumbling. Then the rain starts, pouring down in thick, heavy drops. The sidewalks are soon sloshing with water.

Little rivers stream down the curbs, then bigger ones. Mitzy is under the buggy hood. I’m soaking wet. Mama takes off her hat and puts it in the buggy, over the sponge cake. Now the thunder’s closer, louder.

I’m scared and want to cry, trying not to. I know we can’t go home, and we can’t get to Auntie Stacia’s in time either. We’re caught in the middle of the biggest storm ever and there’s no way to get out of it.

Tree branches are bending. The wind whips all around us. Now big hailstones start falling, hitting the buggy hood in fat ice balls, beating all over me in shivering chunks.

What are we going to do? We can’t even run, not with the buggy.

An empty garbage can rolls sideways past us. I scream as I jump out of its way, swerving the buggy. Everything’s blowing all around us.

What if it’s a tornado, like in The Wizard of Oz, and it blows us away—where would we end up?

“We have to stop,” Mama says, water running down her face, and giant hail hitting her head.

How can we stop? Just stand there in the middle of this big storm? I look up at Mama for an answer—she always has them.

We’re in front of a big house with a wide porch. Mama turns the buggy around toward the house and tries to get the buggy up the concrete steps, pulling it backwards up the wooden porch steps with great effort. Mitzy is screaming wildly. I’m shaking all over. I try to help, so afraid the buggy will come back down, tip over and Mitzy will fall out. Two more steps to go. Mama gives one more shove, I give an extra push, and we’re on the porch, shaking off rainwater.

It’s still hailing, white balls bouncing on the sidewalks, but we’re safe on the porch where the hail can’t get us, and there’s no metal around to attract lightning, only white wicker chairs.

Mama checks inside the buggy and tries to quiet Mitzy. There’s still thunder and lightning.

I’m cold, I’m wet, but at least I’m out of the rain. I feel like bursting out crying, biting my lips hard as I can.

The door of the house opens and I see a lady in an apron standing there. I’m thinking the lady might say we can’t stay on her porch— that we don’t belong here. She doesn’t know us, and might tell us to go home.

The lady steps out, holding the door wide open. “Would you like to come inside, at least till the storm’s over?” She doesn’t look mean at all.

“Thank you, but we’ll be all right,” Mama says. “We’re dry here, and out of the storm. Thank you very much.”

I would have liked to go inside, to get further away from the storm and see all that’s in her house, but dare not say anything.

The lady goes back inside, then comes out again, this time with some big bath towels.

“Here, you can dry yourselves off,” she says, handing Mama a big blue towel, and wrapping another smaller pink one around my shoulders. It feels so cozy and warm.

Then she puts her hand in her apron pocket and takes out a fat gingerbread cookie. “Here’s something for you, little girl.”

All of a sudden, the storm seems far away. That cookie is what’s close right now. I manage a smile and say, “Thank you,” quickly biting into the sweet cookie.

Mama’s busy drying off Mitzy, the buggy, her hair, then my hair. The lady has gone back into the house, but the door to the inside is still open.

“You’ve been a brave girl, Lulu,” Mama says. “That was a big storm we just came through. You helped lots. I couldn’t have done it by myself.”

Yes, I was brave, wasn’t I, never letting on how scared I really was. Right now, the scaredness is down inside my stomach, mixing up with the cookie pieces.

The lady comes back out without her apron, and sits on a wicker porch chair next to Mama. I play with Mitzy, giving her a bite of my cookie. I don’t even try to listen to Mama and the woman’s conversation, because all they’re talking about is the storm, and I don’t want to hear anything more about any storm, thinking it m ight even bring it back if we talk about it.

“Well, I think we’ll be on our way,” Mama says after a few minutes. “Before another storm comes up.” She gives the towels back to the lady.

“Your little girl can keep that towel”, the lady says. “She’ll be too cold without it.” It’s a nice warm towel, without any holes like ours have.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, hugging the towel tighter. Two presents in one day from a very kind stranger.

The lady helps Mama get the buggy down the steps. Going downstairs is always easier than going up. The sidewalks are all wet, stacked with fallen leaves, and tree branches all over. It’s hard pushing the buggy over them, so I run ahead, dragging things out of the way. When we get to the corner, there’s deep water all across the street.

“Looks like everything’s flooded,” Mama says, and pushes the buggy right through the lakes. Our shoes are squishing with water. We continue going to Auntie Stacia’s, but it’s much slower than before. Nobody else is on the street.

Finally, I can see her yellow house. Yard ornaments are blown all over, and plants and bushes are bent way down. Her big birdhouse is on the ground, broken, and her birdbath is overflowing.

Auntie is sitting on the porch in her big green swing. Right away, she waves to us. “Thought the storm might have kept you away,” she calls out. She’s wearing the pretty blue dress she made out of silk from China.

“A little storm doesn’t scare me,” Mama says.

But I know Mama was scared, I could tell. Grown-ups never like to say when they’re afraid; they have to be the brave ones, especially if there are children around.

Mama takes the cake tin from the buggy and sets it on the porch table. “I hope the rain didn’t drip into your birthday cake,” she says.

I’m wondering about that too, but Mama doesn’t take off the tin cover. Next, she takes Mitzy out of the buggy and holds her real tight, kissing her all over.

I stand looking at the sky as the sun starts to break out from behind clouds. I’m hoping to see a rainbow, a sign from God that there won’t be another big flood. But there is none. Maybe we just can’t see the rainbow today from where we are. Like the sun and moon, we know they’re up there, but they’re not always visible to us, just at certain times. It must be the same with rainbows—we have to believe there’s always one somewhere, even if we’re not able to see it.

Religion makes you believe in lots of things you cannot see.

We all go inside, and right away Auntie shows Mama around—the rooms she’s just painted over, using a sponge and two colors of paint, the new flowers she made from tin cans, and some large colorful ones from crepe paper, summer dresses she’s sewn. She gives Mama some of her old dresses each time we visit.

“You can either wear them or make them over for the kids,” Auntie Stacia always adds as she stuffs them into a bag.

One of my favorites, a made-over dress, used to be Auntie Stacia’s satiny purple one. Silk feels so slippery soft when you wear it, and when I do, I always think of the teensy silkworms winding the threads around their cocoons, and the Chinese ladies unwinding the same threads—just to make this lovely material.

Auntie Stacia doesn’t have any children. She did have a little boy many years ago, but he died from eating fish. His throat swelled all up and he couldn’t breathe, but they didn’t know it was because he was allergic to fish. Now we all know, and have to be careful about new children in our family, because they could have caught this fish allergy thing. Mama never lets little Sonny eat any fish, with strict orders, “Don’t you ever give him any fish —ever! He could die like little Joey did.”

Auntie has a big picture of little Joey on her sitting room table, but we never talk about him; yet it always seems like he’s in the room, looking at us.

Auntie Stacia has this empty oatmeal box filled with wooden spools from her sewing which she always gives to visiting kids to play with. I don’t want to pile up spools anymore, especially today. I always ask if I can look at her books. There’s a whole bookcase of them. She lets me, even though she mentions, “Those aren’t books for children. There aren’t even any pictures in them.” She shakes her head, as if wondering why I find books so fascinating.

Sometimes I sneak peeks at her romance and love magazines, when I’m sure Mama’s in another room.

After touring the house, Mama and Auntie Stacia sit at the kitchen table having their regular tea and muffins. Auntie gives me a muffin with lots of strawberry jam on it on a little saucer, with a paper napkin, putting it on the floor where I’m playing with Mitzy. I feed muffin pieces to Mitzy, and she gets jam all over her face and keeps yelling for more. I think maybe Auntie will give me another one, but she doesn’t. One is all I ever get.

Mama and Auntie Stacia talk about relatives, mostly ones who are sick or dying. I can’t keep track of all their different names. And they talk about the bad conditions that are going on in our country, how poor so many people are. They don’t mention the storm, as if that’s already a closed chapter that doesn’t have to be read again.

Pretty soon, Mama says, “I think we better be on our way. Enough visiting and storm-dodging for one day.”

It’s earlier than we usually leave, but Mama looks tired, and we won’t be looking at Auntie’s garden of flowers as we usually do, not today. I put the books and other things away, and help get Mitzy ready.

“You take care of yourself, Lulu,” Auntie Stacia says, giving me a big hug, “We don’t want anything happening to you.” She says that every time we leave.

We walk fast on the way home, going the same way, but everything’s different. There’s evidence of the storm all around.

It’s good to be back at our own house once more. If I’d been there during the storm, I’d have gone down into the basement, which I do sometimes, saying I’m looking for something, or making some project with Daddy’s tools. It’s much safer down there than upstairs—no windows and heavy block walls. But I’d never go up into our attic during a storm, that’s for sure. It’s scary enough up there, just any time.

I can’t wait to tell everybody about all that happened.

I put on different clothes and rush outside to join the kids who are already out in bare feet, running up and down the curbs as streams of water rush down the gutters into over-flooded sewer hole grates at each street corner. While splashing about, we talk about the storm.

I make my adventure sound even worse than it was. Now I have a story I can repeat over and over about something unusual that happened to me. Grown-ups do that all the time.

A few days later, Mama says she’s taking the newly washed pink towel back to the porch lady.

“She said I could keep it,” I protest.

“It was just borrowed,” Mama says, “just like we borrowed her porch for a bit.”

The lady gave me the towel, she did not borrow it to me. But it would be hard explaining to Mama my difference between giving and borrowing.

I guess we don’t have to keep things forever, only for the time we need them, then let them go.