This ole house is afraid of thunder
This ole house is afraid of storms
This ole house just groans and trembles
When the night wind flings its arms

Lightning (and thunder) figure in two of my earliest memories — one that formed the foundation of my respect for the tough nature of my grandmother; the other that spoke to the more powerful and elemental strength of lightning and the earliest scary memory of my life.

First, about my grandmother. She had to be tough to survive on the North Dakota prairie after being abandoned by her then husband with two small girls before my father was born. She did what she had to do, and took a job cooking for the crew of a cattle ranch. Her day began at three in the morning, making bread for the men to eat before they went out to work with the cattle. It ended late at night setting up for the next day. Sometimes there were only a few hands working with the ranch. But during the high seasons with birthing, branding, and moving the cattle toward the railroad, there could be several dozen men to attend to, all needing bread, food, and whatever else was called for.

There are two incidents attesting to her resilience, only one related to lightning. First, while chopping firewood for the cooking stove, a rattlesnake got in the way (or from the snake’s point of view, she got in the snake’s way) and it bit her. She wrapped up her hand and kept working. Wasn’t much else she could do. And second, years later, after she’d remarried and moved to Wyoming with my grandfather and gave birth to my father, she was baking again (a single loaf, no doubt). But during the baking process, she opened the oven door, only to find herself picked up, knocked unconscious, and groggy from a bolt of lightning that came down the flue to the stove and exited through the path created by the open door. Family lore is that — just like the snake bite — It was no big deal. She put the bread on the counter, took a brief rest and continued with her day.

My lightning experience is less dramatic, but influenced by hers. Years later, we lived in Rapid City where my father was an Air Force Lieutenant. A tremendous (for me at least) storm blew in where my twin brother and I were visiting in the house next door. My mother was back at our house taking care of our older brother. It was windy and noisy, and although we liked the people next door, we cried and begged to go home. Too dangerous and rainy, we were told. We were lucky to have stayed with the neighbor as a tremulous crack and flash of light lit up the house, leaving a tremendous crack in the driveway separating the two houses. Although scared, no one
was hurt. And we learned first hand to take thunder storms seriously.

And I never forgot the few lines from “This Ole House” from the early ‘50s.

 

               

My mom believed her daughters were safe

in a house filled with friends

An unlocked side door became an opening

to the cellar stairs 

where the neighborhood kids just walked in.

 

The basement was a club house

filled with homemade ice tea and cookies,

a record player of Motown tunes, then mostly Dylan hits,

board games like Monopoly and Risk,

Chess for the captain players who thought a lot,

a dance floor for the girls.

 

Painted pink and gray 

this place reserved its future space

in all our minds until this very day,

our sanctuary of sorts, 

like a most fitting Dylan song-

‘Shelter From The Storm’

 

On this one day in April everyone came in

as the rain pounded the streets.

The alleyway turned into a flood zone.

The handle to the side door broke,

so we took turns to open it.

 

Thunder startled us,

so loud we jumped out of our shoes

laughing at ourselves, hiding

our teenage cowardice 

inside uncontrolled giggles 

as we held each other close.

 

The lightning pierced through us,

surrounding all the windows at once.

Lighting up the pink walls, 

as it traveled around the house,

leaving a ghostly spotlight in our eyes.

 

I was the first to challenge it.

To dare it’s menace on our home,

with foolish adolescent bravery 

I ran up the stairs to the door, 

standing behind the glass window 

looking eye to eye at the storm.

 

There were at least four of us 

at that aluminum door,

mesmerized by the furious beauty

of wind, rain, thunder, lightning, powerful

fear.

 

When the bolt hit the window’s frame

we jumped the entire flight of stairs. 

Closest I ever came to being zapped

out of existence, fried forever in one second

by a force in nature not to be denied.

 

We recovered in the comfort of friends

who helped us catch our breaths,

giving us some fresh brewed, cold ice tea, 

never mentioning our stupidity or tears.

 

A definite memory of the club house years.