My mother was taught to be afraid of thunderstorms. The explanation she gave me was that one of her foster mothers (she had 3 throughout her turbulent childhood) told her to get under the bed whenever one came through. She never told me how that parental “caregiver” told her to deal with thunder and lightning when she got too big to fit under the bed. But I know firsthand that when she was an adult she would sit in an interior hallway of the house until the commotion passed.
But only after she went room to room, telling her 4 kids and husband to turn lights, TVs, radios, and any other electronic devices off and then unplug everything. Or, if no one was in the room to do it, she’d do it herself. Then she’d roll her favorite hassock from its spot in front of her favorite chair in the living room and out into the middle of the hallway. I don’t know how old that grey vinyl hassock was by the time it had deteriorated beyond the point where silver duck tape couldn’t hold it together anymore and Daddy finally threw it away, sometime during my teen years. But it’s part of my earliest memories in our living room.
Once her seat was placed in the hallway, Mama would sit down, close her eyes, put her face in her hands, and ride the storm out in silence. She expected everyone else in the house to be quiet too. Often, with no radio to listen to and little to no natural light to play with my toys or read by, I would sit on the floor next to the hassock. Sometimes when the thunder quieted down, letting us know the storm was moving on, she would start up a conversation with me in a low voice. I still remember how connected I felt with her in those moments.
Growing up, I thought this was what went on in everybody’s house during a thunderstorm. That is, until I happened to be at friends’ houses during thunderstorms late in my childhood. I felt really uncomfortable with keeping the lights on and continuing to watch TV with them, while their parents went on with whatever they were doing, too, before the storm came up. And when it passed and no one had been struck by lightning and no electronics had exploded, I was relieved.
The damage was done. I was afraid of thunderstorms too, and it took until I was living with my first roommate in college before I stopped turning everything off and unplugging things right after the first distant rumble of thunder. And that was only because I was too embarrassed to show my fear. But I was still nervous for a long time. Still am, especially during particularly violent weather. My friends laugh at me when I tell them that, even now, I turn lights, my laptop, and/or TV off when there’s a severe thunderstorm. My mother taught me well.
But I don’t fault her for it. She was only passing on what she was taught. And I bet her foster mother was teaching what was taught to her, too. They were all doing the best they could with what they were told. In a way, I’m grateful because, alongside the fear, I carry great memories of quality alone time with my mother in that dark, quiet hallway.
By Jackie Davis-Martin
On April 21, 2024
Linda–This is so intimate and so entertaining. I think hereafter that I will remember your mother during thunderstorms. That’s a useless promise, though, in San Francisco. We don’t get them. Your mother would have liked living here.