Stormy Weather

We lived a short walk from Fisherman’s Beach.  You could see a slice-of-pie-shaped piece of it from the window over the sink in the kitchen on the first floor, the balcony off the bedroom my sister and I shared on the second floor, and out of the tiny window permanently shut by layers of paint in the two-bedroom attic.

Revere Beach, the east coast’s oldest public beach, King’s Beach, and the drive that hugged that coast were all just minutes away by car.

We were a family that loved the weather.  That is to say my parents taught us, by their enthusiastic energy, to be excited about severe storms.   By the time I was six, there had been enough of them that we had a routine.  During this particular dark and stormy day, we buzzed about the house digging out sou’westers and galoshes in a rush to get to the crashing waves along Lynn Shore Drive.

Piled in the car, all six of us would sit in awe looking out drenched windows as Dad drove carefully and slowly—the latter not so much for safety, but rather so that we could all get a good gander at the rolling gray Atlantic with hopes of catching sight of a good crash.  Waves, not cars.  Like the best of a 4^th of July fireworks display, we’d all, “Ooh, ah, and whoa!” at the really big sprays of white foam as the waves collided with the sea wall.  Some would lap right over the wall and  into the street in front of us, occasionally hitting the car T-bone style.

At some point we’d park and walk on the sidewalk along the wall.  Sometimes we’d play chicken with the waves–waiting until the very last minute before running away before it “got” us.   Our little yellow slickers curled up at the hem from the force of the gale.  The shiny yellow hats had a brim that stuck out over the collars so the backs of our necks wouldn’t get wet.  I remember mom would tie each of our hats securely under our chin—one at a time, in a line up, just before we exited the house through the mud room.

One time my sister and I were in bed after supper during a storm–or hurricane – we really didn’t distinguish.  A hard rain or hail or thunder and lightning—they were all just storms, and we loved the adventure of them.  Our twin beds faced out to a balcony that we were told was a widow’s walk.  There were two multi-paned windows and a door leading out to it.  We were forbidden to go out there because it wasn’t safe.  The door was always locked and, in fact, there wasn’t a knob on it—I think so that just in case we got it unlocked, we still couldn’t get out there.

We watched the downpour and made a game of who could spot the next lightning bolt first.  Karen spotted a bird on the far left post of the balcony.  We jumped up to peer closer through the window.  It was a dark gray bird, hunched and still.  Was it dead?

We called for dad and he came right away—thinking one of us was in trouble.  Mom followed, and then the boys.  We all stared at the bird to see if it was alive.  Mom and Dad talked about what to do. A decision was made.  Dad went to get the knob for the door and the key.  He was going out onto the porch to investigate.

I was instantly full of fear.  We had been warned many, many times that the floor of the porch was not safe to walk on.  My dad was a really big guy.  Sometimes I was embarrassed that he was big and round and didn’t always fit in chairs or in the rides at the amusement parks he’d take us to.    I really couldn’t believe mom was going to let him go out there.   “No!  Dad don’t go…you’ll, you’ll get hit by lightning,”  I lied.  I never wanted to tell him his size made me afraid.  I knew that would make him feel bad.  He told us not to worry; he’d careful.  We all gathered in anticipation as he inserted the door knob and twisted and wiggled it until it caught.  He turned the skeleton key and pried open the door. I did not want to see my father fall through the floor.  I was sure he’d die if he did.

The wind was howling.  My dad had to hold the door tight so the wind wouldn’t slam it wide open or shut.  Mom shut the door as dad inched out along the house and past the window.  The sky was dark with rain making it difficult to see anything but shadows. When the lightning struck, we could see that Dad had gotten closer to the bird.  It hadn’t moved.  I hoped it wouldn’t attack him.

Finally he reached the bird, and slowly removed it, placing it close to his body, and came back along the edge of the balcony.   Mom opened the door to let him back in.  We all gathered near.  He stumbled across the threshold.  As he tripped forward, his arms shot out, sending the bird catapulting in my mother’s direction.  He shouted “watch out!”

My mother screamed and jumped back.  We each let out a holler or a scream and then watched in shock as the bird sailed past my mother, just missing her, and landed on the floor with a thud.

“What is…?”  I muttered. The boys drew in for a closer look.  Mom uttered, “Oh Ed!” in semi-mock disgust.  Dad started laughing and revealed, “It’s just a dirty old rag!”                   

We all giggled and I was relieved.  Mom had enough of his antics, but we always had fun when dad pulled an “Oh Ed!”