(The Way It Struck Me Was Frightening!)

When your mother tells you to stay off the phone during a thunderstorm…LISTEN TO HER!

I know things have changed with the advent of cell phones (fact: an iPhone 17 is 1 to 2 million times faster than my parents’ first desktop computer, which cost them just under $2,500 in 1984), and few (if any?) still have landlines, or even know what they are. But I still feel compelled to impart this wisdom in the off-chance you ever find yourself mid-storm, ignoring your mother’s pleas to hang up, while gabbing on a landline about things that don’t matter and could absolutely be tabled for another time!

I can safely say this would never happen to me again for two reasons: 1) I no longer have a landline and I never will. I drop enough damn coin on our mobile plan as it is (and no one can tell me I’m saving any money by bundling my services because those are just LIES FROM THE WOLF! Just ask my wallet), and 2) I no longer love talking on the phone the way I once did as a teen. Sadly, it’s lost all its allure for me, because who wants to chatter on a hot-to-the-touch, rectangle-shaped, identity stealer? Plus, you can’t slam it down angrily when you want to make a point by hanging up on someone (which, as a bit of a dramatic, was everything back then). I’m still obsessed with both the rotary and fancy phones I once had as a child/tween/teen (and have a respectable collection of them for display), but my people know if I’m calling instead of texting, it’s generally not for happy reasons.

My kids will freak out if my name pops up on their phone as a call they weren’t expecting, and the same goes for me. Typically, before we get on the phone with each other, we send a text first that states, “NOTHING IS WRONG!” I do love a good FaceTime but again, a text prior to said video call must be given so I don’t (or they don’t) panic. *And also, so I can be camera-ready because, my darlings, I refuse to even take out the trash without my face on. I would never subject my angel babies to a mother without her brows and lashes firm and affixed.

Texting instead of talking wasn’t ever the case for me when I was young.

I spent so much time yapping on the phone, my parents capitulated and got a second line that my brother and I shared. They could no longer handle all the missed calls for them because one of us was always on the phone (back when, if you called a person who was on the line, you got a ‘busy’ signal). And when I say “one of us,” I mean me. It was always me.

My brother’s conversations consisted of:

“Dude.”

“Dude?”

“Cool.”

“Sweet.”’

And with that, he and his friends had somehow made plans they all understood.

My, how times have changed.

I love the rain. And I mean LOVE it! As an adult, I call it my ‘sexy weather’ (and am lucky enough to live in a location where it happens juuuust enough). Ever since I can remember, a rainy day meant sunshine in my soul. We didn’t get many of them in California, but when we did, they were magic (and usually included a flood warning or two). I remember our dad taking my brother and me to El Dorado Park after a huge rainfall to let us frolic in the floods. We’d whoosh through the water on the tire swing, donned in our rubber boots we rarely got to wear, and stand atop the play structures as if we were the leaders of some sort of dystopian Waterworld.

It was the best!

One time, during an unusually heavy storm, I had a friend sleeping over. We were camped out in the den and around 7am, we heard the loudest bang ever. Sweet Tammy ran up the den stairs and into the dining room screaming “DID WE JUST GET BOMBED? IS IT WORLD WAR III?” (Which, I understood, because it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility during the Cold War. I’m still afraid Moammar Gadhafi is going to walk down my street raining blood and terror like he promised he would in the 80s, sooooo…)

Turns out, the very large, very old tree on the curb lawn of the house next door had been struck by a bolt of lightning and split it like a banana. When we looked out the window, all we could see were pieces of bark flying sideways in front of our house. It was absolutely wild.

Ask any Gen X-er and/or avid reader (not to brag, but I’m both. My husband very lovingly refers to me as a nerd because I did and do love to read for pleasure. And because I wear glasses, but that’s a whole other story) and the majority of them will probably tell you they were exposed to the brilliant works of Stephen King far, far too young. I know I was!

Now, I’ve never been much of a mathematician, but what I do know is that I read the book IT before moving into my favorite house at the age of nine. So, I know I wasn’t just young, I was YOUNG young when I did. And at this former house, where many a flood took place (much like the rainfall in the book), we had two storm drains on either concrete side of the corner we lived on. You know, the ones like King so eloquently described, where you set sail a paper boat (which my brother and I literally did on those days our street was flooded), that led to the opening where the killer clown with the red balloon lived.

And wouldn’t you know, my jackass brother made sure to convince me that Pennywise was unquestionably living there and would, eventually, find me. He kept telling me he saw a red ballon near each drain, and that my time was coming.

I would similarly like to mention he once called my parents’ phone line from ours (I typically answered their phone if it rang, and he knew that) during a time commercials for a re-run of the movie ‘When a Stranger Calls’ played on repeat on the TV blaring the line, “We’ve traced the call ma’am…it’s coming from inside the house,” which scared me to near-death (because something like that could legit happen in a home with two phone lines). I didn’t know he was home at the time, and had, in passing, made mention of how scary something like that would be…so he and his BFF (yeah, I’m looking at you, Scott!) went ahead, called mom and dad’s phone, and repeated that exact line to me. I screamed into the receiver that I was about to call the police when he started laughing and said, “why so tense?”

*And here’s where I also mention that I will always look up to him (both literally and figuratively) because he never let anyone mess with me, put jerk people in their place if they were ever mean to me, and, a few days after I was born, charged the neighborhood kids a nickel for the privilege of seeing his baby sister. He’s also a really amazing uncle to my kids, and they couldn’t love him more. I got very lucky with having a great (™) big brother. (He insists I include ‘Pat is great’ any time I mention him).

I’ll further add, I did (and still do) consider his BFF at the time my ‘other brother,’ because he, too, liked to scare the living shit out of me, but was always there for me in a way only a big brother could be. My parents spoke of him as their son, and I still speak of him as my brother. I love them both, and consider myself so lucky to have had each of them in my life as my defenders and protectors. They were the funniest, goofiest, and BEST examples of what good men look like. They never failed to teach me how I deserve to be treated as a lady (I mean, apart from their belches and toots, the smell of the Celica, the omnipresent stink of hot dogs and nacho cheese with just a dash of Drakkar Noir, and the pure terror of their practical jokes), but still? I wouldn’t change one second of it.

As a native to California, I always hated the weather (which, typically, is the main reason people move there, and why both of my parents did!) It was just too sunny for my tastes, and ALL.THE.TIME. I know I’ve said it before, but a 90-degree Christmas sucked, and as a child, I longed to walk in a winter wonderland! We had the manufactured snow at Big Bear and Mammoth, but it…wasn’t the same.

My mother was born and raised in Providence, Rhode Island (and when she got to talking to her brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, or mother, that accent came roaring back), and my dad was from a teeny tiny town called Sherrill, which was known as the “smallest city” in upstate New York.

The reasons for why both of my parents ended up on the West Coast after leaving the East vary wildly. For my mother who, as the youngest of eight, touched down in Los Angeles when she was nine, it was because my maternal grandfather wanted a better (and sunnier) life for his family. The story goes that grandpa Teddy had grown up in an orphanage and, never knowing who his biological parents were, dropped out of school in the third grade, left the orphanage at nine-years-old, and promptly went to work in a factory. I’m hazy on the details of how he met my grammy, who had been a Catholic nun up to that point, I just know they met, got married, proceeded to have eight children, and moved to California via first class airline tickets (that my mom told me her dad was so proud of). I mean…I would be, too! That’s what…10 people? I would have to beg, borrow, and steal for just ONE first class ticket in these trying times, but my grandpa was somehow able to pull off 10?

What a badass.

I never got to meet my grandpa Teddy, because he died when my mother was 19, soon after she married my dad. My parents both told me that, on their wedding day, my grandpa took my dad aside and told him he trusted that he would “take care of Marie.”

My dad didn’t let him down.

The reason my paternal side moved to California was a bit different. My dad, who in all my youth I’d never seen with so much as a head cold (and who could have taken five whole years off while still getting paid from his job because he never took a sick day and, in California, they rolled over), was a very sick child.

He suffered from severe asthma, survived Scarlet Fever (bless Sir Alexander Fleming for his discovery of penicillin), and was generally prone to new ails. Dad had grown up on a farm in the early 40’s during an era that hadn’t quite yet adopted indoor plumbing. So, I imagine having to trek outside to an outhouse as a child in the dead of winter in upstate New York didn’t help his health matters, either.

When he was an infant, my grandparents owned and ran a hotel upstate that included a restaurant and an all-and-after-hours bar. While cooking for her patrons, my grandmother would rest my (premature) dad in the bun warmer, which was located at the top part of the oven, to regulate his temperature and keep him toasty.

I’d like to add some fun facts about my paternal gramps: a good Irish lad, his time in  New York included him being a rum runner during Prohibition based on the fact he liked to drink and could drive really fast (which also means he’s unofficially, but still partially, responsible for the inception of NASCAR), brewed highly illegal (and likely delicious) bathtub gin, was a former small-town politician (who had the town’s police force in his back pocket when liquor was against the law, happily serving them nightly), had a pet crow who would get drunk by sauntering across the bar, saying hello, and drinking out of his patron’s beer steins, and he used to serve Al Capone on the regular.

Talk about a long line of badassery!

Every time we went to visit grandpa (who lived in the desert at this time), he always gave each of us a roll of pennies, and we ate Kentucky Fried Chicken (which was a HUGE treat, because my parents would have never allowed it on our house).

My brother and I still giggle about the time we were walking about their development when, out of nowhere, an old (and very mean) woman on her porch randomly yelled at us (I assume for merely existing?) to “GO ON! MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!”

Miss Ma’am…we already WERE!

I was only eight when my grandpa died. He was very old and had a cancer he’d already lived through once, and he just didn’t feel like fighting it again. Back in the day, when someone was in the hospital, kids under the age of 13 were not allowed to visit certain floors because of chicken pox. It was a whole thing. When grandpa was on his death bed, the nurse was able to get my brother in, even though he was only 11, because he was a normal (if not taller-than-average) height for a 13-year-old, and she could flub his age. But I was tiny. And, with tears in her eyes, she told my parents it just wasn’t possible for me. I was so sad, and prodded my brother for the details of their visit. He’d asked him about baseball, school, and had him promise to stay being a good young man.

The night he died, I had a ‘dream’ that saw my grandpa coming into my room, surrounded by the brightest light I’d ever seen, and sitting on the end of my pink and lace-adorned bed. He patted my shin. He smiled so wide. I wasn’t scared. I could see him. I could smell him. And I wanted nothing more than for him to stay. He asked me about dance, told me how proud he was of my good grades, and when he got up to leave, turned around and told me to keep up being ‘such a lovely girl.’

I had never felt so good waking up, and when I walked into the kitchen for breakfast, I casually told my mom, “Grandpa died last night. The phone is about to ring and it’s going to be Uncle Dick telling you about it.” I then went about eating my Cheerios. My mom did her best to assure me that while yes, grandpa was very sick, he hadn’t died.

And then the phone rang.

And it was Uncle Dick.

And he told my mom that grandpa died.

I only ever saw that light one other time, and it was when I gave birth to my son. It was a difficult labor and went on for too long because his cord was wrapped around his neck; though, being the smart(ass) and remarkable young man he is, he’d managed to fit his clenched fist between the wraps, leaving four little knuckle marks on his face for his first few months. His shoulders were stuck, my epidural only numbed one half of my body (meaning I felt everything on one side, and nothing on the other), and I developed a high fever (resulting in my little bubba having to be poked, prodded, and stuck with an IV before he was even 10 minutes old). But just as he came out, I saw the brightest, most calming light ever. The same one I saw with my grandpa. And I knew everything was going to be okay.

Y’all…even though I was raised Catholic (and did all things Catholic-related until I was 18), I am not a religious person. Higher power? YOU BET! Organized religion? NO WAY!

But wow…what I saw both those days.

I’ve always believed my grandpa George is my guardian angel, and as cliché as it may sound, my son has always had old man energy. Who am I to reject the idea of grandpa George occupying a bit of his soul?

When my grandpa was still in the service (he’d already served in WWI, while my uncle went on to serve in WWII), the doctors informed him my dad needed a warmer, “less humid” climate; otherwise, he would likely die. So, they moved from New York to California.

*Dad often told the story of how his asthma was cured once they moved to Hemet, the existence of angels, and why he remained faithful to Catholicism his entire life, but I’mma save those beautiful stories for just my books*

California did him well. His childhood illnesses, however, likely informed his never-ending desire to make sure my brother and I were out and about each new day, taking in nature, and making the most of which we’d been blessed. He truly loved being outdoors and wanted us to love it just the same.

My precious middle daughter (who is now in her thirties and I don’t want to talk about that) has always been much like her mama about storms. She LOVES them. But like…. loves them. To the point she wanted (and probably secretly still does) to be a storm chaser. She and my husband would sit on the porch as the storms blew through, narrating every last bit of what was happening out there, as I sat on the phone with my mother (HULLO? Wasn’t she the one telling me to be off the phone during said storms?) doing my best to calm her down.

Homes in California rarely had basements. Pools? Obvs. But basements?

But in Michigan? Basements are like…

Because in Michigan, storms are a real thing and can be a really big fucking deal. The thing is? I never really took that fact seriously (and my husband always reminds us that, in our city, we live in a valley and bad weather things don’t happen here. It may just be because our current house doesn’t have a basement, but we believed him and so far, he’s been right!) But that didn’t stop my mother from seriously overreacting to most things, and I spent most of my adult life fighting against her (what I perceived to be) whimsical fears, so being on the phone during a crazy-wild thunderstorm (while, at the time, living on 10 acres of open land in the middle of the country, with well-water and buried power lines) seemed like such a non-issue.

Which brings us to ‘the incident.’

When we first moved to Michigan, we lived in the country. We’re talking dirt-road kind of country, where every house had no less than five acres, most of the neighbors ran some sort of vegetable farm, there were literal peacocks roaming around (who would stop traffic to take their time galivanting about), and where no one locked their doors at night. People would literally just smile and wave at you as they drove past, which made me want to put my hands up and hand over my wallet because, “what’s your game, PAL?”

In the end, it was a bit too down-home for us city folk, and we relocated to a much more populated and progressive town, where my family and I have lived ever since. But on this specific (and dark) stormy day, nestled on said dirt road surrounded by 10 whole acres of hills and trees…

I was on the kitchen phone, prattling on with my then-boyfriend about something obviously significant and extremely important (I assure you; it wasn’t). My dad was making something on the stove, and my mother was yammering on about how I shouldn’t be on the phone in the first place, and how we needed to “get downstairs.” This house did have a basement; also referred to as a Michigan basement, meaning it was dark, and gross, and damp, and wet, and where all monsters congregated to talk about all the monster shit they were going to do that day, week, and year. No WAY was I going down there!

A mere two minutes before, my mother said to me, “You know…if you stay on that line, you could get struck by lightning!”

And just as I was laughing with my boyfriend about what she’d said, I saw a flash of light outside the kitchen window, marveled at the wonder of it all, then felt a jolt take over my body so powerful, it shot the phone I was on out of my hand, sending it flying across the kitchen and hitting the refrigerator with a big, loud thud. Like something out of a cheesy (but fabulous) 80s horror movie, every hair on my head was standing straight up and I felt completely hollow inside. I’m talking similar to not having bones in my bits or something. I stood there for a minute, not able to say anything, as my dad rushed to hang up the phone. One of my pupils was fully dilated, while the other was the size of the head of a pin.

I.Was.Shook.

Could I be any MORE of a dumbass?! As much as it pains me to admit, my mother was often right about a lot of things, and this was one of those times. I should never have been on that phone!

While my dad was scrambling to figure out whether or not to yell at or comfort me, my mother insisted we go to the ER immediately, if not sooner. I was just standing there drooling and giggling. And I’m not kidding about that! I had all the information in my head and knew exactly what had happened, but couldn’t articulate my thoughts (or control my saliva) for the life of me!

What I remember most about that brief hospital visit was the doctor looking at my fingernails (which were painted a really weird and sort of funky yellow. It was the 90s! Times were experimental and I was going through insert-whatever-popular-phase-20somethings-were-going-through-at-the-time) and asking whether they were on purpose or the result of the lightning strike (which made me giggle), who the President was (which I knew, but couldn’t form the words to say), me telling him they have these new and delicious “FAT-FREE TWINKIES!” and him looking at me like I had three heads.

I also remember the ride home, where I threw up from the morphine the entire drive home (out the window and subsequently down the side of the car) on M-52 (which went on for miles), the countless eye appointments that followed (and how my left eye would get so bloodshot any time a storm was a comin’ that you couldn’t tell what color it even was…which happened for YEARS after this happened, and is still a problem when it comes to my occipital script), and being included in a medical study conducted by The W.K. Kellog Eye Center at The University of Michigan.

I remind my kids of this story any time it storms, just to add a fresh and healthy dose of anxiety and fear, to be sure they stay off their phones, inside their homes, and in the lowest level possible. My middle daughter pretends to have moved past wanting to be outside during a thunderstorm, but when she’s here, she and dad are outside relishing in it until the last possible safe second. Again, we don’t really get crazy weather in these parts (I mean…it’s much crazier than California), but it’s fierce enough to remind us that you just don’t mess with Mother Nature because she’ll cut a bitch if she has to.