Storms in the Night

my parents' wedding day
October 12, 1939

Storms woke me late last night. Rumbling thunder. Sheet lightning. Periods of heavy rain.

I'm going to admit now that I don't like storms. And I'm pretty sure it all goes back to my Oklahoma boyhood when I feared that every storm would feature a funnel cloud.

I actually never saw one until I moved to Ohio--May 31, 1985. I was standing outside the school where I was teaching in Aurora; we had a play production that evening, and, out in back of the school, I saw a funnel peeking out of a dark cloud. It did not descend until farther east, where it blasted the town of Newton Falls.

Fear was a part of my 1950s boyhood. Tornadoes. Atom bombs (yes, I experienced those drills--hiding under our desks--arms over our heads). And, in Oklahoma, dust storms. One day (fourth or fifth grade) one severe one came in, and the school principal (Miss Hinshawe), seeing it boiling in the western sky, sent us home (it was a neighborhood school--no buses). I had my Cub Scout uniform on that day, and I used its yellow bandanna to cover my nose and mouth as I staggered home--about a mile--in the stiff wind and the roiling clouds of red dust.

Next day, we found grit all over the desks--and everything else in rooms that had windows. The dust had found every possible way in.

My fear of storms has not really left me--though I had to subdue it when our son joined us in July 1972. He didn't like storms, either, and many was the night when, the thunder booming, he would arrive in our room, seeking sanctuary. I was actually glad to have him there: I feigned courage for him. But he comforted me probably more than I comforted him.

And so it was, last night, that I thought of my own parents, whose bedroom I also visited on stormy nights. I miss them both, horribly.

Dad's been gone for nearly twenty-one years; Mom, a little more than two. And I despise being an orphan.

I miss my mom's very traditional cooking (but, oh, could she bake a cherry pie!). I miss my dad's laughter, sometimes so intense it immobilized him.

I miss my mom's swift intelligence--even though I was sometimes (often?) the object of its razor's edge. I miss my dad's athleticism--games of backyard football, of baseball. Oh, could he run!

I miss my mom's devotion to her beliefs--her self-discipline (something I did not always appreciate when I was living at home). I miss my dad's fabulous tenor singing voice.

I miss my mom's quiet voice and wry sense of humor. I miss my dad's grilling outdoors--and making buckwheat pancakes for us on Saturday mornings.

I miss our long family car trips. (Dad's family lived in Oregon, so we headed out there, by car, every few years.) And so I learned to love the American West.

I miss seeing my mom consume chocolate with a fury she rarely displayed elsewhere. I miss my dad's downing mugs of A&W root beer--munching dry-roasted peanuts while watching football games on TV (he didn't care who was playing--he would watch).

I miss my mom's sewing, her quilting. I miss my dad's stories about fishing and hunting and his Oregon boyhood on the family farm.

I miss my mom's stories about Scotland (where she'd lived as a girl while her father was attending the University of Edinburgh).

I miss seeing my mom read books--and take notes for her teaching. I miss watching my dad read the Sunday newspaper so methodically, so thoroughly.

I miss seeing my mom dressed up for church. I miss seeing my dad in his Air Force uniform.

I miss ... everything.

Including having a haven in their room when the heavens were exploding. Or when a virus is spreading across the land.