Thunderheads

Summer storms, some are not

by Sally Cragin

In Tritown, summer storms blow in as quickly as a manic-depressive's bad mood and often inflict as much damage. When the sky is the color of a day-old bruise, and the whiff of ozone is in the air, residents of Tritown bring in the wash and close the windows before the wood swells some more.

Hollis the Mountain Man's Mountain Lair is somewhat shielded from the worst depredations of summer storms. Tucked snugly in the lee of Mt. Magoonamitichusimog (an amalgam of French, English, and Algonquin that means: "my idiot friend who lives by the bog -- he likes it"), his cabin is surrounded by solemn pines.

Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee (there was a questionable great-great-grandmother) is less protected. She lives in a small and low-ceilinged colonial-era cottage on a hill and worries about storms, winter and summer. Large-crowned maples and sagging power lines girdle her house, though most of the trees are on the street side of the stone wall, which means that the Tritown DPW would be responsible if there were a mishap.

One afternoon, Hollis leaves his Mountain Lair in quest of a dirt bike. Earlier in the day, he'd circled several numbers in the WantADvertiser, got directions, and now he's out inspecting and rejecting an old Ross, looking more seriously at an original "Stumpjumper," but knows there is a better bike that won't be listed. Besides, he is in Delia's neighborhood. A storm is forecasted for late in the afternoon, and he finds her walking around the house, gazing up fearfully at the trees.

"Wouldn't take much to send that big maple crashing," says Hollis honestly but cheerlessly.

Delia's face crumples with disappointment. "You think so?" she asks in a tiny, defeated voice. They stand on her sloping backlawn. The trees have completely leafed out, and the drooping power lines dart between branches like rope licorice.

Hollis stares up at the trees and then lays flat on his back beneath one. "One scenario could be: lightning strikes tree, which splits, which crashes through wires onto house, which sparks old wood, which -- "

"SHUT UP!" Delia yells. She is very tempted to kick the feedstore cap off Hollis's melon-shaped head, but, in a surprising gesture of gracefulness, he lurches quickly to his feet.

"Aw, that won't happen, Delia," he says, brushing the grass from his backside.

"Whyzzat?" she says suspiciously.

"Oh, you know how nothing I ever talk about ever happens," Hollis admits in a rare moment of candor. Delia guffaws and pretends to whack him on the upper arm. A sharp retort was rising in her throat, but since he's here, he might as well help her shut windows and take the lawn furniture in. There's a crisp, moist tang to the air that warns of an approaching storm.

CENTRAL NEW ENGLAND has had earthquakes, thunderstorms (and the sinister in-law of the summer storm, the microburst) as well as tornados. "If there's an area of New England where a tornado is more likely to occur," says meteorologist Wayne Barnes of Weather Services Corporation, "it's the central parts of southern New England, especially well-inland in the Connecticut Valley. This tends to heat up pretty well, and it's low elevation, which makes it a hot area."

A few years back, there was a tornado in Great Barrington, and, of course, there was the Tornado of 1953 in Worcester. A severe low-pressure system caused thunderstorms in Michigan and Ohio. The next day, the system moved into central New England. There, the resulting twister, which was nearly a mile in width at times, rampaged for 46 miles through Worcester County. According to David Ludlum of the Weather Channel, the tornado "mangled steel towers built to withstand winds of 375 mph." It also destroyed houses and scattered the rubble as far as Boston and the ocean beyond. Even a baby was swept from a mother's arms. In all, the death toll reached 90.

ONE MIDSUMMER DAY, a rumor sweeps Tritown: a tornado watch -- not the same as a tornado warning, but worth worrying about, nonetheless. Deep in the woods behind Hollis's Mountain Lair, Lorencz the Hermit, who specializes in mycology, is meditating in his tiny shack (constructed of 2x4s Hollis was throwing out, canteloupe crates, and polythene sheeting). In another era, Lorencz the Hermit might have been a shaman (actually, if he was organized enough to conduct seminars, he could still be a shaman). If Hollis the Mountain Man is an eccentric rustic in the views of the citizenry, Lorencz the Hermit is merely a rumor, and seldom-seen.

Lorencz is uncommonly sensitive to barometric pressure, the phases of the moon, the diffusion of sunlight, and whatever chemicals are racing through his brain circuitry. Approaching storms actually stabilize his mood swings, making him more tranquil (and hopeful, as mushrooms always pop up after rainfall). Usually, for the big ones, he'll venture forth from his shack to enjoy Hollis's reluctant hospitality. When Hollis sees Lorencz sloping in from the woods, his bearded face wreathed in smiles, he knows the weather will get very bad, indeed.

On the tornado-warning day, Lorencz has brought a newspaper hat filled with blackberries, first of the season, and happily awaits the black coffee and doughnuts he knows are forthcoming.

"Storm coming," he says to Hollis, accepting his cup, and a cinnamon-frosted. "Big one, for sure. Not as big as Worcester, probably not a tornado, but some rain, you bet."

Hollis gazes at Picture Pond, which is as still and flat as a mirror. Lorencz sips his coffee and then demands a refill. He follows Hollis into the tiny galley kitchen. "Worcester was something -- 'course, I was just a boy," he mutters. "But that was something -- end of the world, you'd think, end of the world."

"Oh yeah?" Hollis asks, topping off his cup. "My parents were just outside of Worcester at the time," he tells Lorencz. "Not in the stormpath, thank God, but they said it was as loud as a freight train."

Lorencz begins to giggle madly. "Train, that's good, that's pretty good. More like a thousand trains. Pretty crazy stuff. I remember all kindsa stuff. All kindsa stuff."

"Like what?" Hollis asks.

"Got any more doughnuts?" Lorencz counters. Hollis grabs the bag and leads Lorencz back onto the porch. A Mountain Man is used to rough living, but Lorencz's personal aroma is too rich for a confined space.

Outside, wind flutters the tops of the trees and sends a tremor across the pond. "Sky's the wrong color for a tornado," Lorencz grumbles. "Too much movement. Tornados come when the sky is yellow. Don't know why, just is."

Hollis repeats his request. "Tell you 'bout the tornado of '53?" Lorencz says. "Long time ago, but it was pretty real, that's what it was. Louder than the Fourth of July, lots of crashing, banging kind of thing. Branches whipped back and forth. My mother and I went down to the cellar, with all our cats, and when it was all over we saw a bathtub in our neighbor's yard, and just down the street, a house with the roof off, just the walls up, and in the windows, the curtains were still hanging.

"Weird, weird, weird stuff. Afterward, people found pictures and snapshots that had blown out of people's albums all the way to Boston. Branches everywhere, old trees split down the middle, saplings were just fine. A little bent is all."

Hollis looks at his neighbor of the woods, whose face is red from the exertion of telling his story and gobbling three doughnuts while telling it. "A little bent from the storm," says Hollis wryly. "That explains everything."

Sally Cragin edits Button, New England's tiniest magazine of poetry, fiction, and gracious living.

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