The Storm Cellar

I am a little out of sorts today. The time change combined with the breezy, unseasonably warm evening brings memories of my grandparents' home. It's odd how clear those memories are, how I can recall the view from the small concrete and brick front stoop, the placement of the gigantic cottonwood on one side of the yard and the wide drooping apple tree on the other. Of all the place I have lived in my lifetime, memories of my grandparents' house are as distinct as those of my own childhood home and much more distinct than any place I've lived as an adult.

Now as my own house creeks against the force of the breeze and the windchimes sing, I think about my grandparents home and have that same slight feeling of anxiety that blows into a soul as a thunderstorm approaches. I can almost smell it, that air, heavy with the threat of rain at the same time faintly sweet, like freshly turned soil. Nights spent observing my grandfather as he paced from front yard to back watching the rolling, angry skies. His mood would grow dark and his gaze would sharpen, and for a time he would cease to speak. Birds would stop singing and the air would be silent except for the pound of an occasional distant thunderclap. He would stand immoble for several minutes in a sort of environmental trance surveying, absorbing the clues, totally silent.

Then just as suddenly as he'd stopped, he would snap into action. He would quickly move inside the house and brief my grandmother. Things would begin to happen. The house would begin to take a frantic pace: crackers and bologna packed in paper bags, nightgowns tossed in on top, lines to the restroom would immediately form. Strangely, I never actually heard the orders directly from my grandfather. It was always my grandmother's voice that announced, "We're going to The Storm Cellar." While Granddaddy made trips back and forth, readying the Storm Cellar for a night's stay, Grandmama would be calling the names of each child, gathering us all on the back porch, soothing us as we grew more and more agitated.

We would all traipse out together amidst the light falling rain, and descend into the cellar with mixed feelings of dread and relief. The cellar was dank and musty. Cobwebs filled the hard to reach corners. Old jars filled with water lined up in odd places. Dust settled throughout. Usually, by the time we arrived there was at least one oil lamp burning thanks to my grandfather. The Storm Cellar was designed and built by my him as a bomb shelter during the Cold War, but it served the family best and most as a refuge from tornadoes.

Inside it was like an army bunker, many beds and very little rambling space. There was always a fight for the top bunk which usually resulted in my two cousins and I sharing it. We would complain of being hungry and incessantly ask when we could go back to the house. Sometimes there were card games to play. Other times, we simply laid in bed listening to the rain pound the tin room of the cellar, trying our hardest to be quiet.

When dawn would finally break, we would ascend to the yard, our nostrils black from the oil lamps. The grass would glisten, the sun would shine and the air would smell like hope. We would all eat breakfast and think but rarely talk about the Storm Cellar. The same is true today.

Namaste