Nights when storms are raging

— Attributed to both Will Rogers and Mark Twain, depending on what you read.

A Story

Worth Telling

A different column for this space was taking shape about the middle of last week. One intertwined with memories of growing up in Mount Pleasant. But that was before spring storms wreaked damage and havoc on much of Northeast Texas late last week, including my hometown.

I’ve lived most of my life in Shelby County. Still, there’s something about the place where you grew up riding bicycles, playing marbles in the dirt, learning about life, and making friends at school. The place that always remains as home in the heart. For me, that was the south side of Mount Pleasant.

The column I was whittling on can wait while we pray for communities in that neck of the woods to get back on their feet. As I was crafting this second effort column Sunday afternoon, many residents in the storm’s path still lacked electrical service. Many more were surveying storm damage and the aftermath of flooding, processing the impact it will have on their lives.

Just a couple hours south, down here in Center, we missed the straight-line winds, tornadoes, and other hissy fits Mother Nature was spewing across several states.

I watched reports of weather happening not that far away, remembering other nights here in Deep East Texas when winds wailed, and thunderstorms raged. Waiting out tornado watches and warnings in the wee hours before daring to go to sleep.

And here I am again, pondering sleep on a Sunday night in Center with storms again passing through East Texas. This time, unleashing on Center.

Tornado season in East Texas always reminds me of grade school years in West Texas, where storm cellars were commonplace in the 1950s. And still are. Underground shelters that provided excellent storage for vegetables from the garden and a place for kids to play hide-and-seek on hot summer afternoons.

But when skies darkened, and weather threatened, families huddled in the cellar. Some trying to ignore the storm long enough to steal a nap on Army surplus cots in the warm glow of kerosene lantern lights.

Dad was not a storm sleeper. He was a storm watcher. Often standing at the top of the stairs in the cellar doorway to watch the show. Black funnels like the one that danced through Seymour, Texas one night. Surreally illuminated by lightning and sparks from snapping power lines. Debris filling the air.

I remember that one and another in East Texas at Crockett. My first year of school in 1954 when a mid-day tornado turned noonday skies to midnight black. When violent winds whipped large trees around like saplings while parents picked up children huddled near a row of lockers at one end of the classroom.

I attribute weather like that, and my father’s affinity for storm watching, to my once secret dreams of being a storm chaser. Hunting down tornadoes, then playing tag with them to gather weather data.

What I have done in reality is keep one eye on developing weather and another on a place to hide should violent storms get too close for comfort.

That skill was learned from the best weather warning system I ever had. A couple of small dogs. Miniature schnauzers named Benny and Sassy. Benny was especially adept at weather prognostication. Sensing an approaching storm long before the weather service reported it on radar caused him to hide under my chair and whine.

Once storms hit the area, both of them headed for the bedroom. Benny was too old to jump on the bed, so he went under it while Sassy hit the topside and burrowed under the cover. I usually joined the one on top of the bed but kept my options open for joining the senior canine hunkered under it.

With the same curiosity my father displayed decades ago, I used to bravely step outside and watch the weather. Observing late afternoon storms approaching across water was magical when I lived on Lake Murvaul. Watching nature’s power building and the rain coming down were mesmerizing.

However, the first upclose lightning flash usually sent me running, trying to beat the dogs back in the house.

Resuming our respective spots in and under the bed, I drifted off to dreamland as storms diminished, tornado watches expired, and dogs relaxed. Thankfully, like Mark Twain or Will Rogers indicated, the weather will always change.

That said, my all-clear for slumber was still reliant on one last thing. I never went to sleep before the dogs did.

-----—Contact Leon Aldridge at leonaldridge@gmail.com. Other Aldridge columns are archived at leonaldridge. com