The weather had been unseasonably hot and dry the fall of 1933, the drought extending all the way into November. All eyes scanned the skies periodically, hoping for the rain that would break the drought and bring cooler temperatures. The clouds rolled in, threatening, but produced no rain. The old timers who predicted rain by their rheumatism, declared when the weather finally broke there would be fierce storms. I was already terrified by storms, so these predictions did nothing to reassure me. Thursday morning dawned sullenly, the air muggy and discomforting. The temperature had dropped tremendously by the time we got in from school and Daddy announced a “Blue Norther” was blowing in. It was cold, cold as we hurried through our chores early, getting the milking done, the chickens fed and shut up in the early dark, getting extra wood for the kitchen stove and the fireplace, and plenty of water to do through tomorrow. Daddy had fastened the shutters tight over the windows to protect them from the lashing of the winds the signs told him were coming. We’d all be snugged up against the storm tonight. Working at our homework in the kitchen, meat-hungry, we were teased by the rare aroma of an unlucky raccoon roasting with sweet potatoes, poke salad(a strong-smelling wild green), and the special treat of a berry cobbler wafting from the nearby stove. Mama was in a fine mood and had outdone herself, looking forward to a pleasant evening with her family, knowing everyone was safe and warm, even letting Ol’ Jack come in and sleep behind the stove. She planned to read another chapter or two of Riders of the Purple Sage this evening since we were all enjoying it so much and just leave the dishes to soak till morning, for once. The wind picked up and scattered the last of the sweetgum leaves just as the sun set. A cold breeze slipped under the door and Daddy pushed a worn towel back to seal a crack as he came in with a final bucket of water, announcing, “That’s it for the night. I don’t plan to go back out if I don’t have to.” He stooped and rubbed his cold hands over the fire, then turned and backed up, warming his legs, backside, and hands held behind him. “Ohh! That feels good. Finally, he warmed up enough to move further away and toast thoroughly. Mama called us to wash up for supper when our cozy evening was interrupted by a pounding at the front door.

Daddy opened the front door to Dee Gibbs, clearly anxious about the coming storm. Dee, a hobo who made his rounds periodically, was likely to show up when the weather was headed for a bad spell and linger for two or three days till the weather broke. The wind was cold, but not as icy as the looks Dee and Daddy got from Mama. She and the three of us kids despised Dee and couldn’t imagine why Daddy tolerated his unwelcome visits and the pallet on the kitchen floor.

She shooed the us on in to the table, not about to have Dee eat up the roast coon before we got our share. Stony-faced, Mama served us and herself first, before passing what was left to Daddy, then Dee, not wanting him to confuse her attitude with welcome. Undeterred, he finished all that was left, then ate as much poke salad and cornbread as he could hold. Mama divided the cobbler among us all. At the end of the meal, Mama stored the leftover poke salad and cornbread in the rough-shuttered built in kitchen cupboard for the next meal, sending us straight to bed when we’d finished the dishes. There would be no reading that night. Daddy and Dee Gibbs sat in front of the fire, discussing previous fearsome storms, and comparing them to the progress of the fierce one starting now. Dee, notoriously terrified of storms, was getting more nervous as the evening progressed. Mama glared at Dee when he related some particularly terrible event, not wanting the children to overhear in their beds nearby. The wind rattled the shutters and howled around the eaves, as rain blew sideways against the little house. Thunder reverberated almost continuously, pausing only to build in volume and intensity. Lightning split the sky, flashing between the cracks in the shutters as though intent on pursuing those within.

As the storm peaked, Dee paced nervously, torn between wanting and not wanting to see, peaking out through the cracks in one shuttered window, then another. Not satisfied with the view from the front room windows, he moved on hoping for a better view from the kitchen when the detonation of a lightning strike deafened them, blasting the entire house in a blinding light, permeating the house with the acrid scent of ozone. The windows still vibrated as the we were jolted from our beds to Mama and Daddy in the front room. Knowing lightning must have struck the house, Daddy looked around for signs of fire or damage while Mama settled us back down. To her fury, even as the storm abated, Dee continued moving window to window, giving continuous updates on the magnitude and danger of the storm, unwilling to concede that we might survive, after all. Panicking at the final, most horrific blast of lightning, he stumbled in the dark kitchen mistaking the kitchen cupboard doors for a shuttered window, ripped them open and plunged his head deep inside and looked around to see if we all were being blasted to Kingdom Come. Once he realized they’d all survived, Daddy was amused at Dee’s mistake, and called out to him where he still fumbled at the cupboard doors, “How’s it looking out there, Dee? Is it letting up any yet?”

Answering with his head buried deep in the cupboard, Dee replied, “Naw, its black as hell and everything smells just like poke salad!”