Twisted

My father and I had a complicated relationship. He had a family with four children to raise. I was the third son. From my narrow perspective, I felt like an also ran.

A good provider, we were always housed, fed and clothed. We lacked for nothing material.

But Dad always did things his way, in his time. He was an entrepreneur. When opportunities arose, he took them. The family followed. He saw many opportunities. We moved often.

Dad planned to move the summer before I entered seventh grade. He listed the house for sale without telling our mother. She found out when the doorbell rang one afternoon. Mom opened the door to the listing agent and a young couple. He introduced himself and the prospective buyers wanting to see the house.

She knew Dad kept his own council, but that was extreme.

My parents always moved us in the summer, never disrupting our schooling. We prepared for this move, while the school year wound down. I came home from school one April day and my dog, Sam, didn’t run to greet me.

I asked my mom, “Where’s Sam?”

“Oh, Dad gave her away to a farmer.”

That was the last thing anyone ever said to me about Sam. No one offered explanations. It didn’t feel safe to ask. Sam was never mentioned again. Leaving for school that morning, I had no idea I’d never see her again.

Everything changed for me. My dog for years, Sam truly had been my best friend. I never understood Dad’s reasons. Feeling betrayed, I couldn’t count on anything after that.

Always a given, the bond with my father was broken. I’d never questioned my place in the family. After losing Sam, I knew I was an afterthought. My parents were generous, but unstated rules meant nothing was secure. A stranger, I no longer trusted.

“You’ll make new ones,” he said when I protested leaving my friends behind.

After we settled in our new house, my little sister got a puppy, Mandy. I never bonded with a dog again.

A year later, I was completing my seventh grade. It was my fifth school in seven years. I was the perennial new kid. We’d been in the new house almost a year.

My folks had bought plants and trees for the yard. A storm was predicted. They wanted to get everything planted before it rained. The whole family spent the afternoon planting. We boys dug holes for an apple tree and a hedge of raspberry bushes up the hill. My Mom and sister planted flowers. In a few hours, we transformed the nondescript yard into a little paradise.

As we worked, ominous clouds moved in. Predictions of rain became severe weather warnings. Tornados were possible. The news methodically provided detailed instructions on preparation and safety.

We finished in time. Our new garden would get a good soaking.

Mom, my sister and brother set up camp in the storage area near the furnace in the southwest corner of the basement. We had a radio, a lantern, water, blankets, and snacks – everything we’d need should the house be destroyed. We each brought extra clothes down, just in case.

We were too busy to play records in the basement game room. Dad had also bought a pool table for us.

Mom ran a tight ship. Children of the Great Depression, my parents knew how to manage through crisis. She had us stow anything loose in our rooms. We opened windows a few inches to equalize internal pressure during the storm. She said, “We don’t want the house to turn inside out.”

Before the term was considered demeaning, her title would have been ‘housewife.’ Managing a household with four children was on par with running a corporation. She knew how to delegate. We each had our chores. Mom’s house ran so efficiently, she had personal time for painting and sculpting. Her art adorned the walls of our home.

My sister, eldest brother and Mom stayed in the basement, praying for a false alarm.

My other brother and I stood out front with Dad, scanning the sky for danger.

Thinking back, I wonder what passed through his mind that day. A former Marine, a veteran of WWII, what had he seen in the war?

We’d never talked much. But now was impractical. In terrible suspense, we focused only on the glowering clouds.

We expected anything. A deluge? Would I actually get to see a tornado? We could only wait. And watch.

The silence was oppressive. No lightning or thunder. No wind. No chirping birds in the heavy, static air.

Though early, the gloom felt like glowing nighttime. Weak, bilious green light filtered through heavy clouds.

Dad pointed. “There it is. Go!”

The clouds turned like a sluggish drain, gaining speed.

“Go!”

Everything happened fast. My brother and I bolted inside and flew down the stairs. Getting to my siblings and Mom, the gut-wrenching roar overwhelmed every other sound. The house shook. Had fifteen seconds passed? Ten?

The lantern offered the only light.

Mom yelled, “Where’s Dad?”

“What?”

“Where’s Dad!”

It was too loud. I couldn’t hear. Face to face, panicked, we screamed in terror, enveloped by the hellish roar, like being inside a jet engine.

I looked around. He’d been right behind me. Where was he? Why isn’t he here? I couldn’t believe it.

I screamed, “I don’t know.”

The look on her face said it all. I’d left him behind. In the storm. Alone. What had I done? No time to think. Too late.

Why didn’t he follow?

“Dad!” I couldn’t hear my own voice.

Nothing to do. Would I see him again?

Had a minute passed?

The cyclone moved on. The roar sank into deathly silence.

“I’m here… I’m okay!” His distant voice. He kept calling out.

We groped our way into the game room.

We found Dad, kneeling under the pool table, a mere ten feet away. He rolled from under the table and into our arms, bathed in warm tears.

His bad knee, a war injury, slowed his way down the stairs. The storm swept in so fast. Doubting he had time to get to us, he dove under the heavy table.

All were safe. The house had minor damage. The funnel skipped over us and landed on the other side of our little valley.

Curtains and other loose objects had vanished. Random objects had traveled to other rooms.

Stripped of their leaves, our plants survived.

~

My Dad never changed. But somehow, things between us improved.

He wasn’t the best father. He was the best father I could have. He came through for me whenever I needed.

And I wasn’t the best son. But I was his son.