Storms will come no matter what

might as well enjoy the show

It was a dark and stormy night. Actually, it was an afternoon.

In July of 1988, the summer I turned 13, one of my aunts had come to our home in Omaha, Nebraska for a visit. It was one of those particularly hot and humid summer days, the kind that, if you’re familiar with Nebraska summers, might set you a little on edge or have you frequently checking the sky for signs of an approaching storm.

I loved a good summer thunderstorm, and I still do, so when the sky darkened and the winds picked up on that summer day, I was more exhilarated than scared. I enjoyed watching the sky light up with nature’s fireworks and to hear the thunder rumble overhead. I would sit out on our front porch and watch the storm with more enthusiasm than a child on the 4th of July.

It was disappointing, then, when the sirens blared and we had to take shelter in the basement, where we could hear, but not see, the storm. Still, it was loud. The way the wind ripped and roared through the trees, and the rain and hail pelted the house, and the thunder clapped as if it was right over our heads!

My father was at work at the Air Force base. I’m not sure where my mother was. So my aunt was there in their place, making sure we stayed downstairs and probably making sure my baby sister, who was 6 at the time, didn’t break down in absolute panic. That part of this story is a bit fuzzy, to be honest. It’s the storm itself that I remember. And the aftermath.

In our backyard was one of those massive silver maple trees that are so common in some of the older neighborhoods in Omaha (because they are fast growing and great for shade, really handy in the days before central air conditioning). Our tree was so tall and its branches so wide that it shaded half the house and most of the yard. But its trunk, to me, was even more impressive. It was so thick that even two of us couldn’t wrap our arms around it.

Once the storm passed and the voice on the radio said it was clear, we headed back up the stairs and into the back yard to see what the storm left behind. What we saw amazed us all.

One of the massive limbs from the maple tree had snapped in the wind like it was no more than a twig! It had fallen to the ground, held up by branches that now resembled small trees that had sprung up from the ground, making the back yard look like a jungle. It had missed the house. And it had missed—by a mere hand’s width—my aunt’s car that was parked at the back of the driveway. We were all amazed at that, seeing it as some kind of miracle.

I don’t remember if it was an actual tornado that ripped through our neighborhood that day, but it was certainly a doozy of a storm! My dad, and probably my older brother, spent a lot of time out in the yard that summer getting rid of that downed tree limb. The tree itself recovered, though it seemed rather lopsided for a while.

There have been many storms since. They often bring with them damaged trees, downed power lines, cars crushed by falling limbs. Just last night another storm came through, the first of many to come this year no doubt. I welcomed the flashes of lightning and rolls of thunder, while hoping and praying that the damage would be minimal and that no one would get hurt. My husband, son, and I hung out in the basement family room playing Jenga and listening to the weather man give updates.

Sometimes my son teases me because of my fondness for inclement weather, as if finding a bit of joy and wonder in a storm is akin to inviting the inconvenience or damage that comes with it. In truth, if I had my way, a summer storm would bring with it nothing more than a noisy light show and rejuvenating rain.

That’s not how the world is, though. So, no matter what kinds of storms life brings, I hope I can continue to weather them with at least a little bit of wonder and joy.

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Poem: Storm Cloud

A gray-black storm cloud
crossed the sky,
overflowed as it glided by, 
dropping hailstones on my head,
gushing rain, then stopping dead
to yield to sun rays pushing through
the way that pushy sun rays do.

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Children’s books featuring storms

• Over in the Wetlands: A Hurricane-on-the-Bayou Story by Caroline Starr Rose, illustrated by Bob Dunlavey

• Watersong by Tim McCanna, illustrated by Richard Smythe

• Rain by Sam Usher

• Thunderstorm by Arthur Geisert

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