Lakeside Memories: Tornado

A Story by Bob B

Tornado.

The very word sent waves of fear through my body and dashed my serene images of carefree, childhood days with my grandparents by the lake against the rocks of harsh reality--just as the relentless storm-driven waves crashed against the rocks on the lake shore.

I had never actually seen a tornado, but I had heard the stories or legends of the locals:

“I heard that the twister tore the baby right out of his mother’s arms and gently laid him down in a pasture without hurting a hair on the poor child’s head."

“My word. And yet they say that the wind is so strong it can drive wooden splinters through steel."

“I hear that we’re safe by the lake because they jump over the water and land a good ways off."

“You know when the funnel cloud is near because there’s supposed to be a dead calm--and not a bird in sight."

“But when the tornado is very close by, it sounds like a locomotive rushing through your house."

Perhaps I didn’t understand the full magnitude of a tornado, but, nevertheless, the vivid images etched themselves into my memory.

The day had started out to be calm and peaceful--an idyllic summer day by the lake with butterflies fluttering in the garden and bumblebees diving at my brothers and me in the breezy afternoon air, almost enjoying the challenge of taunting us. We dashed to and fro, exploring the yard for new wonders. We found a bird nest that had been abandoned by its owner; a dead fish that had washed up on the shore; a snake that had slithered between Gram’s feet, scaring her to half to death while she worked in the strawberry patch; and three unfortunate frogs, whose legs we planned to cook on our makeshift backyard grill. Our minds were so preoccupied with our day’s adventures that we barely noticed the increasing humidity as the heavy early evening air pressed on us and the gray, towering storm clouds crept in from the west.

When it finally dawned on us that a storm was brewing, we ambled out on the dock and watched spellbound as our lake churned and sputtered and crashed against the posts of the dock. Whitecaps dotted the water and danced on the surface of the lake--a mesmerizing sight--while the wind whipped at our faces. A few neighbors who had been caught in the lake in their motor boats attempted to speed to shore to avoid the wrath of the approaching storm.

Gram called, “Dinner!” thus awakening us from our trance and reminding us that we were hungry. Not long after that, the storm hit.

As the storm gathered strength, I tried to console myself with some of the hopeful stories that I had heard from Gram’s sewing circle. The lightning lit up the night sky, silhouetting the trees against the dark expanse of the lake, only to be followed by a thunderous clap that shook our small lakeside cottage and sent pulsating waves of fear through my body. I clutched Gram’s hand, seeking comfort and protection from the violent storm.

“Neil,” she called. We stood in the doorway of my grandparents’ bedroom and sought the support of Gramp, who was sound asleep. Gram hoped she could convince him of the urgency of the moment. “The storm’s getting pretty bad. I think there might be a tornado."

Her words jolted him out of his sleep. “Wha…?” he muttered. After he realized what was happening, he mumbled a few incomprehensible words and then sighed contemptuously. “Go back to bed,” he said as he rolled over onto his other side. Gram looked down at me and just shook her head, disgusted with his lack of concern for our safety. In a few seconds, Gramp was snoring again.

Boom! exclaimed the thunder simultaneously with a blinding flash of lightning. Gram squeezed my hand and whispered, “The storm is close."

The wind was blowing the rain against the windows and bending the surrounding trees, creating giant shadows that looked like monsters lurching at our little house.

“I’m scared,” I said. “Are we going to have a tornado?"

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I hope not."

My oldest brother bounced into the room, eyes wide with excitement. “Yey! Tornado! Is there a tornado, Gram?"

“Well, Mickey, I don’t know. It is a bad storm."

Mickey saw the fear in our eyes and took advantage of the situation. Staring at me wildly in the face he said, “The tornado’s going to hit our house and smash it to bits. Then it’s going to pick you up and spin you around so fast that your eyes will pop out. Then it’ll dump you in the lake and …"

“Gramma!” I yelled.

She came to my rescue. (I knew she would.) “Mickey, stop scaring your brother. Go wake up Dougie and bring him here."

“DOUGIE!” he yelled, without leaving us. Gram was about to say something to him when another flash and Boom! interrupted her. Shrugging her shoulders, she peered once again into the bedroom and realized that trying to elicit Gramp’s help was useless. Dougie, yawning and rubbing his eyes, plodded over to us.

“Mickey, open the cellar door in case we have to go down there,” Gram said.

The cellar door was actually on the floor next to the radiator and inside the house. After sliding aside the braided throw-rug that covered it, my brother lifted the door to reveal a wooden stairway that descended into damp darkness--something that was almost as frightening to me as a tornado. I dreaded the dreary pit, which was full of rafters and posts that were covered with dust and cobwebs. It reminded me of a dungeon or a place inhabited by a monster such as Frankenstein, a name that I knew all too well, for I had watched a movie about him on the television during a lazy summer afternoon and had frozen with fear as the monster strangled a helpless man. For days the image had haunted me. Now, as my brother opened the doors to dubious refuge, the musty, humid air struck me in the face and knocked the wind out of me. Sensing my fear, Gram squeezed my shoulder. “Mickey, turn on the light down there. And get some candles in case the electricity goes out…. Don’t worry, Bobby; you’ll be all right. Come with us, Dougie."

Mickey came bounding back up the stairs. “I want to stay up here with Gramp,” he insisted.

“Suit yourself” was all that Gram replied.

We sat on the floor near the cellar door and waited. The howling wind continued to thrust the rain against the windows and the side of the house. With each new attack of lightning and thunder our eyes met, and then we glanced at the open cellar door. I listened for the sound of a locomotive. Then I waited for that dead calm that people talked about. Although the idea of being tossed into the lake by a tornado terrified me, the idea of sitting in the dank, spooky cellar was equally dreadful.

To pass the time, we played Old Maid and Crazy Eights. Mickey fell asleep in the chair by the bedroom door; Dougie curled up on the floor with a pillow. Before long my heavy eyelids overpowered both my desire to stay awake and my fear of the storm, and I laid my head in Gram’s lap and drifted off to sleep while she gently rubbed my back.

The next thing that I was aware of was the sun peeking in through the Venetian blinds, making crisscrossed patterns with the covers on my bed. The birds were busily chirping in the trees, and I could hear Gramp working in the garage. It was morning, it was sunny, and above all, there was no tornado!

I jumped out of bed and dressed. Tiptoeing past Gram’s bedroom, I felt a deep sense of relief that all was well and that we were safe. From the kitchen window I noticed countless little golden ripples on the surface of the lake. I ran outside into the morning calm and down to the dock. Looking back at the house, I could see the ripples from the lake being reflected in the windows, which gave me the impression that the house was winking at me. Once again I felt relief that it was still standing.

Despite the little ripples, the lake was calm. A gentle breeze caressed my cheeks and ruffled my hair. It felt good. We had survived the storm. And no tornado!

I felt good.

Many years have passed, and I walk to the ocean’s edge after a storm. I let the wind massage my face, and, quite transfixed, I gaze at the whitecaps on the turbulent water. I find it odd that staring at the rough, wind-blown sea would give me a sense of calm. But it does. My heart returns to the summer days by the lake when life was simpler. I hear Gramp’s voice repeating one of his favorite sayings to Gram: “Now, Ruth, don’t get your bowels in an uproar,” and I hear Gram’s sweet laugh as we played canasta while the berry pie cooked in her little oven. I feel their love, and I cherish the times back then when we didn’t have much, but we didn’t need much because we had one another. And that was enough.

(Written September 2005)