summer thunder

Thunderstorms are a summer fact of life in Virginia. They tend to blow in at dusk, or a little before, late in the afternoon, usually over a brilliant blue sky. Just out of nowhere. There was one like that Tuesday night at Nick’s swim meet; my friend Yvonne had just remarked how this year the meets weren’t being delayed by thunderstorms, as they had been last year every week, and then one came through. First the distant thunder, which clears the pool. Then lightning, which clears the decks—everyone out of the pool area. At that point we left entirely, went to get dinner with Nick, figuring the meet was toast. We watched sheets of rain fall, wind blow, bolts of lightning light up the sky—and then, clear again. By the time dinner was over it was a lovely summer evening, if a bit damp. We went back and he swam his event, full of french toast and so slow...He cried when he didn’t win his heat, and we left early.

But now I’m talking about a day last week, a day I'd been rather weepy (hormonal, missing Mariah, I don't know...). I was in the office to meet with a student, trying to disguise the fact that I’d spent most of the morning crying. He didn’t seem to notice, and when he left I decided to leave as well, to drive up to the mall, return some things, get some lunch. I headed northwest from campus on a bright sunny day—and almost immediately saw the heavy grey cloud in my rearview mirror. It seemed to follow me as I drove up the highway, Parliament-Funkadelic blaring from the cd-player. “We’ve got the funk, give us the funk...” It didn’t quite suit my mood, but I wanted something lively, something to take me out of my head, and the voice of the lead singer suggestively intoning “Chocolate City,” as if it were a sex toy rather than a political statement, seemed to do it.

I stopped into Panera Breads for my lunch. They advertise on public radio and one of their featured salads sounded good. I ordered it, took it to my table, and sat down to read something for Literary Mama and eat. About halfway into the salad, the grey cloud arrived. With it a wind. The wind was astonishing—out of nowhere, it seemed, all this fury. The staff at the restaurant all ran outside to bring in the umbrellas that were on the outside tables. Before they came back in, the rain started; they came in laughing, soaked.

Then the power went out. A flicker, another flicker, then darkness. But no one seemed terribly concerned. The restaurant has big windows all around, and the woman next to me simply raised the shade so she could keep on reading as she ate. I did the same. Someone managerial—a stout woman in a red polo shirt and too-tight khakis, cell phone and beeper clipped to her bulging pockets—called out, “you’re all free to stay.” We laughed—why wouldn’t we be?

Minutes later she came out again. “Please move away from the windows” she called out. “Wakefield has put out a tornado warning. One touched down in Ashland.” Wakefield is the local weather station; Ashland only a few miles north of us. The reading woman next to me and I both picked up our salads, our drinks, our books, and moved to the interior of the restaurant. I sat next to a man who looked like Tim Conway, sitting with his daughter (maybe ten). They sat silently. I caught his eye, “do you think this is far enough away from the window?” He didn’t answer as I sat down. Minutes later we exchanged glances again. “This is pretty unusual,” he said. I agreed, and returned to my salad, my reading.

Several members of the staff were clustered near me. Rain was coming in under the door. One young woman—maybe 20—was nervous, wanted a cigarette. She got no sympathy from her coworkers. The manager asked one of the men to start clearing the racks out of the cooler and walk-in freezer in case we needed to take shelter there. I remembered that last year Mariah had been on a camping trip with her class, up in the mountains, and they had indeed taken shelter in a Burger King cooler when a tornado warning had closed the road they were on. I wondered how cold it would be. I wondered where Nick was—he had gone to camp in the morning, and was to have a playdate with a friend afterwards. Did they have power where they were? I hoped he wasn’t scared, but beyond that didn’t give it much thought. Kerry, the mom he was with, is way more safety-conscious and organized than I am, so I didn’t worry. I hoped Mark wasn’t up on the roof trying to fix our many leaks, but that too was only a passing thought—I knew he wasn’t. For a moment I wished I had a cell phone so I could check up, then I went back to simply enjoying the enforced quiet, the camaraderie I saw among restaurant patrons and staff, and, especially, the power of the storm. Jagged lightning bolts flashed here and there; the thunder wasn’t loud, though, so I didn’t feel threatened, only mildly curious. A bit drained.


It broke in about half an hour. I had finished eating but not reading, so I picked up my books and papers and left, thanking the manager for her hospitality. She didn’t seem to get it, but I was grateful for her officiousness, for her concern. As I left I noticed tents down in mangled heaps in front of a sporting goods store; the banners announcing their “tent sale” were still up, though.

The storm wasn’t really over. It was still raining. Power was still out—traffic lights weren’t working. The mall was open, but the stores, which had no power, were closed, so I couldn’t do my errand. I drove home, trying to catch some news, but the radio stations were all playing music, unconcerned.

I came home to find no power there, either, and sat on the floor and cried some more, no longer stressed but just tired. Honestly, some days I feel like I’m living in a bad novel—my back hurts and I think, yes, that’s it, the weight of the world is on my shoulders. Yesterday I thought of the storm of tears passing through me as the thunderstorm had passed through Richmond. If I wrote it in a novel the editor would strike it—too obvious. But there it was.