SUMMER STORM

by Richard Van Vacter

Funnel shaped swirls of dust (dust devils) formed and twisted for a few moments and disappeared. Leaves on the cottonwoods drooped listlessly in the otherwise still air. It was mid-August, 1949 in the small rural community known as the Fish Hatchery Addition of St. Joseph, Missouri, a few miles from the bank of the Missouri River.

This day was typical of the dog days of summer—the temperature nearing one-hundred and the humidity almost the same. Blackie, our huge black chow mix, rested in the shade of a large cottonwood tree set in the center of our back yard. He laid there panting and waiting for the long hot day to pass.

In the early evening after Mom had finished her daily chores and Dad was off to work the night shift, she sat near the screen door, fanning her face with a makeshift fan. Outside my two younger sisters, Ruth and Juanita, and kid brother Doug, went through the motions of play, weary from the long, hot, monotonous day.

A sudden freshness filled the air. The leaves on the trees began to sway. The dry musty smell disappeared and a cool freshness filled the air. One of the girls ran and told Mom that it smelled like rain. At first the feeling was relief as a cool breeze refreshed the hot evening air. We were aware that a storm was headed our way. In the West we could see dark clouds filling the sky. We knew the rain would clean the air and give needed water to our garden. We also knew summer storms, with its lightning and heavy rain, could be dangerous.

With a sudden fury the storm began. In minutes the sky was blackened; bolts of lightening streaked from the sky. Loud claps of thunder shook the house. Sheets of rain beat against the house and the clouds burst at their seams to empty their fill. The storm would slow as if to catch its breath only to spit out its fury again and again. Finally, after what seemed to be hours, the storm was carried off to the East by the prevailing winds.

When the storm hit, Mom gathered us together in the front room of our small wood frame house. The phone and lights were knocked out with the first flash of lightning. By the time the storm passed, the sun had set and the house was in total darkness except the flickering of the candle Mom had placed in the middle of the room.

Run-off from the hills above us was flooding our yard as it beat against the foundation of our old house. Drainage ditches, for flood control, some twenty feet from the house were filled and overflowing. Water began pouring in to the basement through the foundation vent at the side of the house.

The flood water rose and beat against the doors, threatening to come in.  Water in the basement splashed against the underneath side of the floor. Suddenly we heard a scratching, a whine coming from the basement. It was Blackie, trapped in the basement, with no chance for escape.

Mom grabbed an ax and pry bar from the pantry and began frantically to chop at the floor. We huddled around watching and some crying as Mom worked hard to free Blackie from a watery grave. The hardwood floor was well seasoned and stubborn to yield to the ax. After several blows at the same spot, a piece of the floor chipped away. Quickly Mom grabbed pry bar and began pulling boards loose from the floor.  Out of the darkness of the flooded basement, like a shot, came Blackie's huge head. He wedged himself into the small opening, clawed, squirmed, yelped with pain and finally pulled himself into the safety of our front room. He shook to rid his coat of the unwanted water. He sat, whined a little, licked Mom's hand as if to say thank you, and then laid down on the floor in watchful suspense.

We sat in silence, gazing at the flickering candle light, expecting any moment the water to push the door open and flood the house. The silence was broken by a loud knock on the door. We heard the voice of our neighbor as he yelled out, “Is everyone all right in there?”  Mom jumped up from her chair, crying and laughing as she said, "Yes, we're fine now."