Poet deVine
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since 05-26-99
Posts 25762
Hurricane Alley
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6 posted 07-21-2002 12:31 PM
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Because we are such good friends (think Venice), I wanted to give your story a thorough read and in doing so, I had some suggestions/thoughts:
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I never understood, until now, why such a thing would remain chiseled in a memory of stone--until now.
I never understood alot of things, and still I remain confused on much. And yet, there is an atmosphere of Hurricane, that even innocents understand. The barometer drops. Birds cease to sing. The family cat will disappear. When crows become silent, you'd best beware. I did not understand the weather reports--as little as they offered then--but I felt the static of aware...blonde hairs in rise on my forearms. There was more than consideration there, when grown-ups took the time to talk down to you.
I think the timeframe is a bit confusing in this paragraph. “I never understood” and in the next sentence “there is an atmosphere”…should it be was?
Oh yes. There was something up. The neighborhood was quiet. The sky looked strange without the birds--summer was different with cool air. I watched my dad take his leather pouch, pounding boards, shutting out my sun. Of course, I asked. (I always asked.) And he said this was just a game. A pat on the head, and a skip of beads, hop-skotched. I knew it was not the same.
I will never forget the sunset that day--a fierce ball of fire, jetting sun, in purple hues, through jetties of cloud, pinks and blues...I watched my mother grasp my father's hand, as he stepped down from the ladder. He had slammed a board against every window of our home. He sankevery (sank every) nail--against the advice of our neighbors.
My mother saw me watching her--she brought me inside to wash glass. She took down ancient-looking lamps--filled with red kerosene, and somehow, even as a child, that excited me. My parents hated candlelight--and just the thought that we'd need these lamps...well? It kind of thrilled me. I washed each globe under her careful eye...somehow a gravity followed me. I understood.
There was something important going on, and for once? I was a part of it.
Darkness comes early when you board out the sun. There was a certain party atmosphere. Adults spoke in tones too gay---and whispered in asides too grave. We had stuff to eat that day, that was reserved for "grocery day." Loaves and loaves of fresh white bread, and cold cuts, and sweet tins of ham. I truly didn't understand. Even once the rain began; it didn't matter. Everything remained the same. We watched the tv and complained that someone's head was in our way. Until the lights went out. Then they lighted dusty lamps--and strange light spattered on familiar walls--and without the familiarity of our own in-fighting(I don’t get this infighting reference it could be made clearer)--we grew frightened.
I cannot forget the sound of a storm in birth of a bitch. I will never forget the sound of train whistling down the tracks at me (sound of a train). I can never forget the sight of walls breathing air, like lungs(were the walls moving in and out? that's the image I get and having never been in a hurricane, wasn't sure. If they were this is cool!). I will never forget my mother crying, and my father, yelling at her--"BEHAVE." I will never forget her apology, as she looked at me, her youngest, and then at him, and saying--
"I'm sorry."
I felt so guilty.(not sure why YOU feel guilty)
I watched my father nail the front door shut. It was heaving, as though alive and disgusted (alive works but I’m not sure disgusted makes sense here). He pushed the couch against it, and commanded us to sit on the couch and "shut the hell up." My mother said, "oh dear god, it sounds just like a train..."
There was evil whistling through the eaves of us, howling without reprieve. Exploding power lines gave us more mystery within the darkness of the boarded house. We were here. We were IN. We had to ride it out.
And then we heard a wailing--a birthing I cannot forget. It is the thing that still wakes me at night sometimes...it is the sound of waking dread. I saw my mom, look at my dad, I saw the look within his eyes.
"That was their roof." he said.
"DON'T YOU GO..." she clenched her teeth.
"I won't" he lied. "You stay here."
He went, instead, where we kept our sheets. And came back with an armful of folded linen. He proceeded to tear my mother's sheets into strips, and I watched my father weave a rope. He tore one sheet into a braid--and that he threw into the sink, soaking it in water. He called my mom, and said, "I need you..."
I really didn't understand. I watched him tie this "rope" to the sink--beneath the faucets onto pipes...I hardly heard him yell to her--
"Shut the door behind me--if you can."
Then he opened the door.
"DON'T GO..." my mother grabbed him, clutching.
I was shocked when I saw him slap her. I was puzzled at his sorrowed eyes.
I watched my mother push her weight against the door, weeping. My brothers ran to her side--and heaved their healthy shoulders against the onslaught of this bitch of storm.
He was gone.
And they carried our mom, back to the couch...and she was uselessness...I heard her wail, and it frightened me, much more than a hurricane's wind, or a train off track. I heard the sound of love keening--a sound that I cannot forget.
My father had tied a rope of his own making, around his waist. He tied one end to his own home. He took out into element and wrestled with the fence and WON. He grappled Hercules of wind as his neighbor pulled him in.
Our neighbors roof sat on our own...our neighbors? Could not believe their eyes. My father begged to tie the babies to his chest. He told them, "we can build a a (remove one ‘a’)bridge." He told them to come home with him; and they called him crazy...
"You can't go back--it's just not safe."
My dad untied the "rope" from around his waist--and told them that there would be a line for them to get through. He tied the other end to thier (their)sink and he pulled himself back...to us.
I watched my mother die, inside, and come to life again. She was listening at the side door. I will never know how she knew the difference between the pounding of his fist to come inside, or (should this be and instead of or?)the sounds of war that permeated, haunting, inside her mind. I will never know how she fought the wind, to open that door, against the suction of 155 mph.
She pulled him in. And then? SHE nailed the door shut.
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I loved the story!!! But what happened to the family next door! You can't leave us hanging. 
[This message has been edited by Poet deVine (07-21-2002 12:35 PM).]
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HUGS YOU.
