“Get up son,” mom said as she gently nudged me awake. “Take your pillow and quilt out to the car. Dad’s waitin’ – hurry up!”
It was only then that I became aware of the flashes of lightning and the subsequent close rumbles of thunder, and the rain hitting hard against the roof and southwest side of the trailer.
My eyes widened and my ears perked up to listen to conditions outside, as I ran toward the front door where my dad scooped me up and rushed me into the backseat of the ’55 Star Chief. Yes, the same Pontiac I have mentioned repeatedly. We had that old car for ten years and it served my family well through many a storm, and snowy trips “down home.”
Dad slammed the door shut and ran back to the trailer for my mom and baby brother. I raised up and watched them running back to the car and saw them illuminated in several flashes of lightning, and hid my eyes as the close thunder shuttered the vehicle just as they closed the doors with synchronized slams.
“It looks like it’s coming from the southwest,” dad told mom. “I think we should go toward Florence.” Mom shook her head in agreement and pulled the blanket up over my brother’s head.
Every time there was a flash, I hid my head under my grandmother’s quilt and pressed my hands against my ears. In that backseat, under that quilt, I felt safe. It was so strange that I had not heard all the excitement before being awaken, but that was generally the case. Dad, or possibly mom, had the keen ears and usually had the family on alert if the conditions seemed threatening.
“We should be safe here,” dad said as he pulled under an overpass, pushed the lights in to the parking position, and tuned the radio to any sound he could find. There was little real-time weather coverage on the radio then, but the sound of other voices from the midst of the darkness comforted my mom and dad.
As fate would have it, we often found out the next day that we had in fact driven toward the worse part of the spring storm and were in much more danger where we ended up than if we had stayed put. However, dad felt like he was protecting his family in the only way he knew how, and that makes it okay with me.
Today, I am the one that awakens at the sound of the first branch hitting the metal roof, the large drops of rain hitting the window, or that eerie roar the wind makes in the treetops near the house. I used to depend on dad to be on vigil, but Vietnam’s frequent rocket attacks moved me into a life long state of readiness. I now waken briefly some nights to ensure the distant roar and vibration is just the Southern working its way south some half-mile from our house. Once I am satisfied, I think back for a moment on the tornado chases of the past, pull my grandmother's quilt tightly up under my neck, and slip off again.
“We should be safe here,” a distant voice whispers.
It was only then that I became aware of the flashes of lightning and the subsequent close rumbles of thunder, and the rain hitting hard against the roof and southwest side of the trailer.
My eyes widened and my ears perked up to listen to conditions outside, as I ran toward the front door where my dad scooped me up and rushed me into the backseat of the ’55 Star Chief. Yes, the same Pontiac I have mentioned repeatedly. We had that old car for ten years and it served my family well through many a storm, and snowy trips “down home.”
Dad slammed the door shut and ran back to the trailer for my mom and baby brother. I raised up and watched them running back to the car and saw them illuminated in several flashes of lightning, and hid my eyes as the close thunder shuttered the vehicle just as they closed the doors with synchronized slams.
“It looks like it’s coming from the southwest,” dad told mom. “I think we should go toward Florence.” Mom shook her head in agreement and pulled the blanket up over my brother’s head.
Every time there was a flash, I hid my head under my grandmother’s quilt and pressed my hands against my ears. In that backseat, under that quilt, I felt safe. It was so strange that I had not heard all the excitement before being awaken, but that was generally the case. Dad, or possibly mom, had the keen ears and usually had the family on alert if the conditions seemed threatening.
“We should be safe here,” dad said as he pulled under an overpass, pushed the lights in to the parking position, and tuned the radio to any sound he could find. There was little real-time weather coverage on the radio then, but the sound of other voices from the midst of the darkness comforted my mom and dad.
As fate would have it, we often found out the next day that we had in fact driven toward the worse part of the spring storm and were in much more danger where we ended up than if we had stayed put. However, dad felt like he was protecting his family in the only way he knew how, and that makes it okay with me.
Today, I am the one that awakens at the sound of the first branch hitting the metal roof, the large drops of rain hitting the window, or that eerie roar the wind makes in the treetops near the house. I used to depend on dad to be on vigil, but Vietnam’s frequent rocket attacks moved me into a life long state of readiness. I now waken briefly some nights to ensure the distant roar and vibration is just the Southern working its way south some half-mile from our house. Once I am satisfied, I think back for a moment on the tornado chases of the past, pull my grandmother's quilt tightly up under my neck, and slip off again.
“We should be safe here,” a distant voice whispers.
