THE STORM

Casey sat with Muffin on his lap and stared out the living-room window. They should be here by now, he thought. They had called from dad's office at least forty minutes ago. His stomach began to churn. What if there had been an accident! He bit on his lower lip and pulled the kitten closer.

It was only late afternoon, but already it was so dark the streetlights were on. Outside, the wind was having a temper tantrum. It raced about frantically, picking things up and blowing them into other people's yards. It knocked over the garbage can at the end of the driveway, pulled out papers and threw them all over. Then it rolled plastic bottles along the sidewalk, over the curb and into the street. It grabbed the trees and shook them back and forth, scattering their leaves and breaking small branches. It stomped through gardens bending flowers, snapping stems and crushing plants. It circled the house, bumped against the door, rattled the lock, and then howled down the street and around the corner just as it began to rain.

Then it poured! Rain pounded on the roof and beat against the walls. It clawed the windows with giant toenails trying to find a way inside.

There was a brilliant flash and snap as lightning pierced the clouds, snaked down from the sky and jabbed a hydro pole that was halfway down the block. Sparks flew in all directions. There was a loud ka-boom! The house shook and then lights went out everywhere.

“Ouch!” Casey yelled and began to rub his leg.

“What happened?” called Grandma, her teacup knocking the edge of the saucer sitting on the kitchen table. “Are you alright?”

“I'm okay, Grandma,” he answered. “I jumped when lightning hit the hydro pole down the street. It scared Muffin and he dug his claws into my leg. It hurts a bit but I'm fine. Poor Muffin! He's probably hiding behind the couch or under the bed in my room.”

“Stay there,” she ordered. “I'm going to get the flashlight and some candles then I'll be right in.”

“Okay Grandma.”

He could hear her moving around in the darkness, carefully sliding one foot after the other as she inched her way across the floor and over to the cupboards. She put one hand on the counter and felt along the wall with the other. He heard a click as she removed the flashlight from it's holder. Then she pulled out the bottom drawer and began to search inside, touching and moving things around until she found the small box with the emergency candles, matches, lighter and extra batteries. She took it out and put it in her apron pocket. Then she closed the drawer, picked up the flashlight and began to make her way to the living room.

“Wait, let me help,” said Casey when he saw her at the doorway. He stood up and walked towards her.

“Are you sure you're all right?” she asked. He looked pale and upset.

“Yes, I'm fine,” he said.

She handed him the flashlight, put her arm around his shoulder and together they went back to the couch.

“Thank you, dear,” she said as she sat down. “Will you bring me the candle holders from the bookshelf?”

“Sure,” he replied. “I'll be back in a flash.”

By the time he returned, she had removed the box from her pocket, opened it up and taken out what they needed. He helped her organize the candles, and when she lit them, soft yellow filled the room.

“Grandma, you had storms when you were a kid,” said Casey.

“Yes.”

“What were they like?”

“Like this,” she replied. “But the Prairies were so flat that we could see the storms coming from miles away. It gave us extra time to take the clothes off the line, put the animals inside the barn, bring in extra firewood for the stove and get all the windows and doors closed. Then everyone sat around the kitchen table until the storm passed. We talked and told stories. If it was dark enough we used our hands and the light from the lantern to make shadow plays on the wall. Sometimes, if the storm was really bad, we went into the root cellar and waited down there until it was over.”

“Root cellar?” he asked. “What's that Grandma?”

“It was a big hole in the earth where we stored fruit, vegetables and preserves,” she said as she picked up the flashlight and walked across the room to the china cabinet. She opened the bottom drawers and looked inside. Then she reached in, took out an old photo album and brought it back with her to the couch. She sat back down and held the book on her lap.

“The root cellar was under the house, like the basement in this one,” she explained, “and it stayed cool all year long, even in the summer.” She opened the book and slowly began to turn the pages. After a moment she stopped. “Here it is,” she said, her fingers resting beside a picture. “This was our farmhouse, Casey.”

He moved closer. The photo was old and faded, black and white, turning brown along the edges. A small wooden building two storeys tall stood in a yard of grass and wildflowers. To the right of it were several large apple trees. To the left was a vegetable garden. Beyond the garden, in the distance, he could see half of the barn, a small shed, and several pens for livestock. Behind these, there were fields that stretched all the way to the horizon.

“We could go into the root cellar here from outside of the house,” she said, pointing to the left at a pair of doors, which rose out of the ground and stretched up against the side of the wall near the bottom. “When we were inside we could get there by lifting up a trap door in the kitchen floor. The kitchen was here, above the root cellar, and across the hall was the living room. All the bedrooms were upstairs. Sara and I shared this one,” she said, her finger touching the small window at the top right. “Our parent's bedroom was above the kitchen and the boys' rooms were at the back.”

“Grandma, were there lots of bad storms when you were little?”

“A few,” she replied.

“When you saw a storm coming could you tell if it was going to be a really bad one?”

“Sometimes.”

“How?”

“Different ways,” she answered. “People watched the clouds and learned to read the sky. There were signs. Some heard about storms on the radio, if they had one. News also travelled by word of mouth and people told each other if they knew a bad storm was coming into the area.”

“Were you ever scared when it stormed?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, “lots of times. What about you?”

Casey nodded.

“Do you know what helped me?” she asked.

“What?”

“Stories,” she answered.

“Stories? What kinds of stories?”

“Ones about thunder and lightning,” she said. “Would you like to hear some of them?”

“Sure!”

She thought for a moment, and then she began. “I was only about five or six years old. The storm came quickly and it was very bad. We got up in the middle of the night and went down into the root cellar. I could tell my parents were worried. Jake and Tom were upset too. Even our dog, Champ, was scared. He was hiding under the bench, whimpering and shaking. Sara was crying. She was just a young baby then. I was ready to cry too. The thunder was loud. It hurt my ears and shook the house.

My mother saw I was frightened. She handed Sara to my father and then she came over and sat down beside me. She gave me a hug and told me not to be scared when it stormed. She said it was just the Angels in Heaven cleaning house. Some were moving the furniture around so they could sweep and wash the floors underneath. Some were outside shaking the rugs or beating them with sticks to get the dirt out. That's what made the thunder. Other Angels were scrubbing pots and pans, washing the glassware and polishing the silver. Whenever the Angels held them up or moved them around, these things sparkled and flashed. That was the lightning. Tom said he thought those Angels had really good muscles because they sure were making a lot of noise up there. That made everyone laugh.”

“Grandma, that's just like the thunder today,” said Casey.

She smiled at him and nodded. Then she continued, “My father said that when it stormed it was old warriors having contests up in Valhalla, the Viking Heaven. They were boasting and cheering for each other as they took turns throwing hammers and spears at picture targets painted on the cave walls.”

“I saw a program about Vikings on television, Grandma,” said Casey. “They were big and tall and tough-looking. They had long hair and wore clothes made of leather and animal skins. They carried swords and shields, and made long boats with big carvings on them.”

“That's right Casey,” said Grandma. “Their boats were beautiful but also strong enough to travel in the rough waters of the ocean. Long ago, the Vikings sailed all the way to Canada and camped on the shores of Newfoundland and Labrador.”

“Did your dad see them?” asked Casey.

“No,” said Grandma, laughing, “that was before his time. But your great-grandfather loved to read about the Vikings and he also made up some good tales about them. My mother often said that Jake was just like my dad because Jake liked to make up stories too. But the kinds of stories Jake told just got him into trouble.”

Casey laughed.

“Tom told me that when it stormed the dead warriors of Indian tribes had gathered together for a meeting up in the sky. They were chanting, dancing in a circle around a big fire and beating on drums. That was the thunder. When the chief stirred the fire or added more sticks of wood to it, flames shot out and sparks flew into the sky. That was the lightning.”

Casey remembered the campfires they had at the cottage last summer, eating hotdogs and marshmallows, and staying up late at night. He liked the smell of wood fire; the way the smoke curled up and out to the stars, sometimes got in your eyes and made them sting; how it clung to your hair and your clothes and was still there the next morning, reminding you of the fire crackling and snapping as the flames danced. Suddenly he had an idea.

“Grandma!” he said, excitedly. “I think when it storms there's a dragon up in the clouds. It's a big green sky dragon with bright yellow eyes and shiny scales all over his body. He's flying around up there making lots of noise, flapping his wings up and down, and slashing his tail back and forth. He snorts fire through his nose to make it bright so he can see where he's going because he's searching for jewels. He collects them. When he finds them he takes them back to his cave and hides them in a secret chamber with all the other treasure. What do you think?”

“That's a wonderful story, Casey!”

“And Grandma,” he added. “You're right. Stories do help because I'm not so scared anymore.”

“Good,” she said, and smiled. “Now, did I ever tell you about some of the other things we did when it was hot and it rained in the summer?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“We didn't have bathing suits,” she stated, “so our whole family went outside in their underclothes.”

“Grandma!” said Casey. Then he laughed.

“We got wet, scrubbed ourselves with soap and let the rain rinse us off. Long downpours were the best because we got soaked right to the skin. Later, Sara and I danced in the raindrops or we ran splashing and screaming through puddles with Champ barking and jumping along after us. Jake and Tom tried to douse each other, or my father, with pails of rainwater. Sometimes they even tried to grab my mother and sit her in the rain barrel. Everyone got cooled off while having a free bath.”

“That sounds like fun,” said Casey. “I wish I could have been there.”

“Listen,” said Grandma. “Do you hear it? The storm is over now, but it's still raining. I have an idea. Casey, would you like to go dancing with me?” she asked, and winked at him.

Casey's parents could scarcely believe their eyes when they drove up the street and turned into the driveway a few minutes later. There, on the front lawn in the pouring rain, were Casey and his Grandmother. They were soaking wet, laughing, and dancing "The Twist"!