Grandma and her Fear of Thunderstorms

Grandma was terrified of thunder storms, and if she was minding us, and a storm blew in, she’d quickly get her “storm kit” and usher us down into the basement.

I swear her periwinkle eyes turned navy-blue and her short gray hair seemed to rise up from her pink scalp in frightened spikes. You could see, smell and touch the fear that surrounded her at the very first flash of lightening or the first clap of thunder.

Psychologists would probably say she was doing us a disservice; setting us up for a lifetime of fearing storms.

Au contraire.

Grandma’s palpable fear made her children and grandchildren become fearless and brave.

We loved her so much we wouldn’t dare add to her nervousness or discomfort. There isn’t a single one of us today who fears a thunderstorm; even though we all knew it was one of the only fears Grandma ever had; or one of the only fears she couldn’t hide from us.

Once in the basement, Grandma would seem to be more relaxed and she’d open her box: flashlight, candles, matches, cookies, paper, pencil.

She’d light the candle even if the power was on -- and it was then she’d tell some of her best stories.

I think telling us stories was a way for her to keep her mind off the storm though we’d all notice how her hands would tremble right up until she’d announce: Okay the storm's blown over and we can go upstairs now.

The basement was half scary and half Disneyland.

Potatoes were stored in bins and seemed to always have long sprouts she called “eyes” that felt icky on our hands. Onions were also stored in the basement and there always seemed to be a smell of a rotting onion somewhere near the root bins as she called them.

But there was also a player piano, a bar with bar stools, copper mugs that hung from pegs and kept root beer so cold your lip would stick to the edge of the mug.

There were rainbow-striped glasses filled with stirrers that Grandma and Grandpa had brought home as souvenirs. Some were heavy glass in beautiful colors; some were plastic and my favorite one had a red whistle dangling off the top.

An old fridge with an erratic heartbeat, still kept sodas cold and the freezer top was taped closed with black tape fashioned in a checkerboard pattern.

An old coal burning stove sat in the middle of the basement as did an ancient “sun lamp” that was impossible to tip over as it must have weighed 300 pounds.

A sump pump, partially hidden by a board, scared the bejeezus out of us. It would come on with a groan and then screech and creek until by some magic it would stop and we could remove our hands from our ears and breathe normally.

There was a round table and chairs set up where we’d play word games on the paper or just sit and drink our root beers as if we were at some chichi bistro.

There were spiders, always, no matter what season. But grandma would warn us not to harm them.

She would recite a poem in French that basically said something like this: if you kill a spider in the morning, you will have bad luck; if you kill a spider in the afternoon, you will have bad luck; if you kill a spider in the evening, you will have bad luck; if you kill a spider at night, you will have bad luck.

It sounded beautiful in French as did the Hail Mary she’d mumble every time a rumble of thunder could be heard…phonetically I recall: Je voo saloo Marie plenty grahs.

Cookies during a thunderstorm always tasted divine.

We'd fight over who was going to hold Grandma's hands if there were more than two of us visiting that day.

Her vulnerability touched the heart of her youngest grandchild and we reveled in the chance to help her; to make it "all better" for her as she always did for us.

If the truth be known, one of our greatest joys was being with Grandma in her basement during a thunderstorm.

It's rare a child gets such a sense of power and responsibility; and it's a wonderful feeling.

I know, I was there in that basement.