Continued from The Twister
Mother stayed a conservative three car lengths behind the truck in front of her. It did stink, but its comforting bulk ahead was a moving landmark to keep us on track when the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the sheeting rain. The truck turned off the main road. Then we were on our own on the straight, flat road. An occasional car approached with its lights on, spraying a fountain of water as it passed. But there were fewer and fewer cars on the road. One car passed us in the opposite lane then slowed to a stop. It turned around and began to follow us. Mom’s knuckles grew whiter on the steering wheel. This was no time to deal with some local yokel. From my vantage point in the back seat, I saw flashing red lights on top of the car. Mom pulled to the side of the road, expecting the police car to go on by, but to her dismay, the flashing lights pulled up quite close behind us and, after waiting for what seemed like forever, the driver’s door opened, and a dark form emerged. The officer’s hat was tipped against the driving rain with one hand clamping it on his head. As he hunkered down to speak, water poured off his hat like Niagara Falls.
“Ma’am, haven’t you heard the weather reports?”
“I don’t listen to the radio. I’m not fond of the music they play.”
“There’s more than music on the radio this afternoon, ma’am. There’s a tornado-watch. No one should be out on the roads. A twister’s on its way right now. It’s not safe out here at all, ma’am.”
“Well, what do you suggest I do? It’s not like I have a root cellar under the car here.”
“No ma’am, I’m sure you don’t. You don’t have kin around here?” he ventured, taking in the absence of a man and the car, stuffed with pillows, suitcases, toys, and kids.
“Nope. I’m on my way to Wyoming.”
“Hmmm, well there’s a little town up the road a few miles. It’s called Osceola and they have a few motels. I’m sure you can find yourself a place to stay for the night. This storm isn’t likely to let up for several hours and it’ll probably get worse before it gets better.”
“Well, I hate to lose so much time, but maybe it’s a good idea. Thanks.”
She started to roll up the window, but he leaned down a bit further, huddling his shoulders together as he did so.
“Excuse me ma’am? I would also suggest that you listen to your radio now and then if you have one. Ya never know . . . and also, it might be safer for you if you turned right on “35” up past Osceola. You could get up to Des Moines and take the state highway nearly all the way to Wyoming. It’d be safer, you know. There’s services, and motels, and . . . ” His voice trailed off as she continued rolling the window up.
We crept down the road, driving very slowly and carefully. Osceola was small and looked as drenched as the policeman had. The first motel had a no vacancy sign as did the second. We pulled into the parking lot at the third one.
“Wait here,” mom growled as she cinched a scarf over her hair and struggled into a rain coat. As she slammed the door shut on her way out, a horrendous clap of thunder reverberated off the parking lot tarmac.
“What’s a twister?” I asked.
Glad to have something to take her mind off the lightening, Joan began explaining what she knew about mid-western weather patterns.
A few minutes later mom scrambled back to the car and threw herself inside. “We got their last room,” she announced victoriously. She parked in front of #4. Carefully planning what bags to take inside, we orchestrated our move carefully and dashed to the front door, which was protected by a broad overhang. Mom fumbled with the key and then we tumbled into the room dripping and soaking. We opened the curtains and watched the rain slashing against the window and splashing off the car. Bright streaks of lightening lit up the sky. In spite of the lost time, mom was glad to be off the road. The wind whipped furiously at the shrubs beside the building.
Mom handed out snacks from her bag of goodies and we played games until howling wind and slapping rain lulled us to sleep.
We woke to a cloudless, pale, blue sky. The metallic smell of the night before was replaced by the just-washed smell of dirt and hay. Delicate bird twitterings filled the still air. The only sign of yesterday’s mayhem was the pond-sized puddle in the center of the parking lot and the broken limbs and battered leaves and trash that littered the ground. I stared at the clean white motel with the pink and turquoise neon strips around the top of the office. Colorful pairs of sculpted metal lawn chairs sat before the window of each unit. The peaceful scene faded from sight, but never from the memory of the four-year-old who had just learned what a twister was.
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Karen Krause said:
Okay, so I know who you are, Linda, but when I start reading Rangewriter relevations, I get so totally immersed, I want only to turn that next page. Your writing skills/storytelling is beyond phenomenal!
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rangewriter said:
Woooeeeeiii! You’re making my head spin, Karen. I guess that means that you forget about me in the journey through the story? That is a magnificent compliment. Thank you.
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exilsmith said:
I enjoyed reading your story it draws the reader in. Beautiful writing!
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rangewriter said:
Thank you very much, exilsmith.
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Jane's Heartsong said:
Wow, that is scary stuff! glad your Mom took that officer’s advice.
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rangewriter said:
I think the situation was so bad, that she recognized the wisdom of his words, even if she didn’t want to acknowledge that to his face.
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Robert Brownbridge Writes Stories and Poetry said:
Yes! Well done. Kept me moving down the page(s) from the beginning. I especially liked the dialog between Mom and the highway patrolman.
How’s life? We’re liking life on the Peninsula, but miss the friends and people of Boise, and finding Sequim is a town of mostly retired Old Folks. (That’s a little hard to explain because in terms of actual age, we … especially me … are older than the average oldster who’s everywhere around us.)
I admire your writing as much as you do. I wish I had the same motivation … but do not, period, even though stories and ideas float daily throughout my cells and veins. But recently I did resurrect an old, old poem I started about 25 years ago and finished it last week (or actually just revised it … until I was tired of it. I’ve attached it below))…… Best, Bob
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rangewriter said:
Thank you kindly, Bob. You know how dialogue scares me, but I believe Jack is right about how it can breathe life into a narrative. I’m learning.
I didn’t see an attachment. Maybe you should post it to your blog. (Hint hint.)
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auntyuta said:
The last room – Gee, that was lucky! 🙂
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denisebushphoto said:
What an adventure for you! Wonderful recollection and storytelling!
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Explorumentary said:
Oh, the memories of growing up in Omaha! Our house was hit badly by a huge tornado in 1975 – I can still see the grey and green mass with little white objects floating around it just before it hit our house. We got into the basement just in time. Through your writing I can smell the rain and see the lightning flashes, feel the chill of the gushes of downpour and hear that magnificent midwestern thunder. The way you describe this scene seems so familiar to me – the reader can just feel the tension and fear. Also, the way the officer helped Yry in looking out for her safety perhaps reflects how people in small midwestern towns looked out for each other.
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rangewriter said:
You say the nicest things! I’m glad what I wrote rings true for someone who experienced such things much more recently and at a more reliable age than I did.
I like your observation about the officer. I was also hoping to show Yry as rather prickly and somewhat condescending. I think that’s how she sometimes dealt with her own fears and anxieties.
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Otto von Münchow said:
When on an adventure, the travel doesn’t always go as planned, does it. But your mother seemed to make the best of the sudden weather change.
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rangewriter said:
I guess she didn’t have a lot of sensible options. . .
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