Squall's A Comin'-- It's Gonna Be Alright

Set your story during—or just before—a storm.

Squall’s A Comin’— It’s Gonna Be OK

Whammo—bang! After that incredible noise after that bright flash—I’m scared. Oh my god. Simultaneous lightning and thunder right over my house—on top of my bedroom. My bed! It was a dark 5 AM. I was so confused about what’s happening so suddenly, knocking me out of a dream. Should I hide somewhere?? I figured I should check the windows, so during a pause in the action I jumped out of bed and ran around the apartment shutting them against blowing wind. Oh no! Another set. I jumped back in. The lightening was so intense, and the blasting thunder that hit immediately after showed the storm was stuck on top of us. I screamed as silently as I could because I have neighbors downstairs. But of course, I couldn’t have been any louder than that blast, its just that my reaction came after.

I’m alone and these kinds of things really frighten me to my core. I’m older too, 75. I don’t know why I care, though. If I died from a heart attack that could maybe be a good thing right about now—solve a lot of anxiety. It’s February 2025, and due to political uncertainty, storms are everywhere. 

Unfortunately, since I have so much stuff I need to go through and organize, if I died of fright right now, my sons would be stuck going through it all. Someone will get stuck with it eventually anyway. I cringe when I think of all the notebooks I’ve written about unrequited love that they would find. They probably wouldn’t take the time to read it anyway. Gosh what an awful thing to do to another person—to leave them your personal mess to attend to and untangle when you die. I better calm down then for now, but still thinking about it lying here. 

Nobody really talks about it, but it must be a real drag to sift through another person’s possessions when they die. While I hovered in bed trying to hide from the storm, I started thinking about people I’d loved who’ve died. My mom had few possessions when she passed. By the time she had been moved to a nursing home everything fit in a few drawers. And because she had a form of dementia she no longer cared; at least that was how it seemed. 

I’m the one with her possessions. I have two blankets she crocheted more than forty years ago. They are precious to me; a turquoise one I use on my bed every day.  Another light green one was for my newborn sons and now I use it as a TV lap blanket. I’m the one who can’t throw her stuff away. I’m the one who treasures these things that have comforted me through the minor storms of my life. 

My mom, Gloria, worked with my X-husbands mom, Fumie, in Fumie’s pottery shed when Gloria came to stay with us in Hawaii. I have some plates displayed in my kitchen now that Fumie spun on her wheel and Gloria decorated and glazed. One plate has a flower design and one a clown face—yes, she had a corny side. Up on my cupboard display shelf is an old tea pot with a dragon design that was passed down from my mom’s mom’s mom. How can it still exist, crack and all? How can it have outlasted the lives of these women and now will probably outlast me—barring any kind of storm that might take my roof off? 

I was there when Mom breathed her last breath. I had opened the window to let in the sunny day and birdsong, then turned back to sit with her. I watched as she breathed in and out deeply three times. She had not said a word to me in the two weeks I had been there visiting and in the last days, sleeping in the room with her. When the time came on the third breath out, she looked into my eyes, then startled herself when her last breath came, ceasing her life of 85 years. I can still see her; it was ten minutes after ten in the morning—she died on the same date as my father only five years later—and they were no longer married. On this beautiful summer day, the only storm raging was in my heart.

My son’s grandma and grandpa’s house on their dad’s side, is still, years after their deaths, filled with the treasures of their lives: pottery made by the grandma, journals written by the pop. The grandpa died the week he was trying to haul his precious possessions down to the storage shed. I can still see him using his riding lawnmower as a carryall for the boxes. Maybe he pushed himself too hard. What a great guy—he held the family together. The grandma lived longer but was out of it the last ten years of her life. She was funny, a great cook—she’d say anything to anyone. The daughter still visits their three properties on this island to untangle the mass of their possessions. Across the alley lives an unhelpful thundercloud to be avoided.

I’m back in bed when there is another flash, boom and bang.  Dang, is this what it is like to be in a war? People all over this Earth have suffered worse I know, and here I am in mortal fear from a thunderstorm. Well, they had predicted it to be bad. That always helps: the stress of anticipation. Again, a flash and crash. I didn’t think there was anything I could do except, if need be, barricade myself in the little hallway between rooms where it has no windows. It’s the same place I ran to in the last big earthquake. And if the roof comes off in the wind—I’d run for my car if it is not already crushed? As a human, I feel so vulnerable. I watch the newscasts; I see bloodied arms and legs strewn all over the news bulletins. They had no idea that particular storm of the universe would get them, or at least figured they would survive it, and didn’t.

I’m lying there in bed and remember that some months ago, there was a show on TV warning us about the possibility of the next round of coming hurricanes hitting our island directly. This, because of changing wind currents due to global warming. They recommended we check to see if our roofs were hurricane strapped. I wanted to check but was afraid to ask my landlord. The guy across the parking lot said he did his, so I figured I had a 50/50 chance. I called the numbers they gave. These guys were on Oahu, and no one answered. The guy on TV said these people want to help us financially to do this hurricane strapping and would give the cash for it to be done. They reasoned it would save the state money later for your roof to weather the storm. Again, nobody answered. Hopeful, I left messages. They weren’t returned. Yep, I would be horrified to be in the midst of a hurricane.

So, do I know if my rental roof is strapped? No. Do I want to ask the landlord who seems to enjoy raising my rent whenever I ask for some small repair. No again. I might, one of these days since he just raised my rent after I asked him to fix a cupboard door that came loose. I could make quite a list of upkeep repairs needed, but it would just make him angry as he rejected the list the last time I offered it.

Flash! Crash! I had gone to use the restroom and now I dive for the bed and get under the covers. One hour of old person terror. I’m mad at myself for being so scared. Why do I have to be alone I lament. A man would come in super handy at these times except he might laugh at me—tease me to no end. Then, it’s quiet. The wildness abruptly ends. The rumbling storm could still be heard off in the distance, yet gone from here.

But oh no, it did not end there for me. In my mind, I’m still terrified of what could happen next. The news still predicted intense weather heading our way. Dang. What can I do? After that prelude, I’m aware it could get even worse. I don’t want to just drive away up to my son’s house and leave everything. Besides they are predicting the storms to cover the whole island including his area. I must do what I can to prepare and safeguard here, now, right?

So, I do a window check because I’m worried some of these loose louvered windows could blow out or at least open since they don’t all lock. Right, they don’t all lock shut but I already asked the landlord about that when I moved in and he just shrugged with an, “oh well.”  He only wants to know if something is actually broken. So, for now I figure out which windows I can somehow barricade against a windstorm.

My son has bamboo on his property. I think it is cool stuff. I have eight bamboo poles sprinkled around the apartment used for different protective purposes. Two to wedge against those two front windows that won’t lock. I always have these in place in case of that rare, unwelcome intruder. Without these bamboo poles, I figure they might easily gain access. I reason, they could hop my stair railing and stand on that little roof off my second-floor stairway and voila—break in. It’s a possibility, right? Ha. I also wedged kitchen knives in there too when I first moved in. I don’t care what people think, I just want to feel safe.

Two bamboo poles secure two bookcases in the apartment so they don’t tip over in an earthquake. Yep, that’s Hawaii! One other pole I use, accompanied by a long metal pipe, to prop and wedge against the entry door and wall at night as added protection against that possible intruder break-in. At least I would hear them trying to enter from my bedroom. 

Another pole I use for a walking stick because I have various pains in my legs. There is another I keep in my car for walks in the park or to the store; it’s very helpful to keep me from tipping over when my balance falters and justifies my use of the disability parking placard I use frequently. So that left three bamboo poles, I think. I set to work using these to secure the three big windows in the living room—also louvered. I don’t want to move my TV and don’t want it getting wet.

Well shucks, the poles weren’t exactly the right length. The first one of the three I tried turned out to be kind of a messy job. I tried a slanted approach, shoved it in, and taped around the pole and secured it to the edge of the frame. It looked real catch-as-catch-can but would still block the window louvers from blowing open and out, I thought. 

The other two attempts on the other windows worked better. By running them up the side of each of the windows, they were almost invisible to the casual observer, with help from the curtains. I figured—the windows could not blow open unless the wind was knocking the house down. I got the poles secured by pressing and wedging them into the crevasse running along the side of the windows then taking my blue masking tape, wrapping it around them and securing the poles to the window and wall. You had to see it. But you know what—I felt pretty good then, like it would do the trick.

All the other windows in the house were just single, smaller, and if they blew out or rain blew in, would not be such a big deal. One was over the table where I drain my just-washed dishes, another over the kitchen sink. Bedroom ones would just get water on the floor, but I still moved one precious painting. I felt good about protecting my TV or trying to—because it is one of my lifelines to the world.

So, everything was secured as best as I could. I then turned on that TV to check the weather news, because there was no lightening or thunder at the moment. Besides, I was right there to disconnect everything from the live outlets again, if it started up. News reports coming in were still predicting a catastrophic event. So, I waited for the storm to hit.

Then they started reporting the storm hitting different island places: first Kauai, then Oahu. Honolulu doesn’t handle huge surges of rainwater very well and they got a lot of flooding and mud in their streets. Maui was getting slammed. Ultimately, that island got the worst of it. Then the storm funneled through the space between our islands, clipping areas all along the west side of the Big Island of Hawaii. That’s where I live, but on the east side. We are usually the rainy side, but not this time. It did get the south part of the island below us though. Rumor has it that Mauna Kea Mountain pushes storms away to the south and that is why the flat south part of our island can get run over when we in Hilo do not.

They started to show plenty of the damage. One newscaster was standing in a “lake” out in the street—maybe on Oahu. She had a pole in her hand—like my metal one I use to barricade my door. She showed how dangerous it was to walk around in these little lakes of water that are standing in the streets. She took that pole and slowly lowered it into an innocuous puddle that turned out to be over five feet deep, similar to her height. It would have been unseen to an innocent. Stay home was her motto. Wait till the effects of the storm go away.

The lightning and thunder never came back over my house. I kept waiting and only once heard it in the distance. I was happy no friend came over to my house, which would be rare anyway. No one to see how paranoid I had gotten with my windows barricaded and taped shut—I mean the blue tape was obvious and so too the plastic sheets covering the bookshelves under the windows in my office. Jeez. My couple of friends I spoke with did nothing to prepare. Am I a bit of a nut?

Oh, this personal “storm watch” lasted for three days. The TV was my lifeline. Although, to protect it from a power surge or lightning strike, I did unplug it and my Internet from the power source at night when I went to bed. First, I would charge my phone, computer and iPad, just in case. I slept satisfied no sudden lightning strike and electric surge would mess up what little I do own that hooks me up to the world.

I’m kind of embarrassed that I am like this—all these unneeded preparations in anticipation of a devastating storm that didn’t come to me. But hey, it did happen somewhere—just not here. I’m safe for now. My next fear is the storm surrounding the news from the new president and rumored threat of a lightning strike to my social security. Now losing that would be a tempest of great magnitude. I worked for it for years—preparing kinda like I did for this recent storm. Sigh. A pathetic storm if I should lose that. 

Jeez, I didn’t realize quite how extremely weird I am until I wrote parts of this stormy story.

I am gonna die, whether from the stress of an oncoming storm or old age. Please, I just want it to be a peaceful one. I’ve envisioned it sometimes with me in a cabin on my son’s land, overlooking the view of Mauna Kea, out on the porch in a rocking chair. I imagine a sunny day since 99% of the time it is sunny there. But it does storm too—he has built a concrete block wall in case the hillside tries to slide down into his house in that rare rain deluge. 

My sister told me my dad died in a hospital in a violent storm. From Hawaii, I had spoken with him in Minnesota by phone, a few days before. One of my greatest memories is of hearing his voice when I got to tell him I loved him. Maybe the only time in our lives it was ever said. I still can hear his last words to me as the nurse was taking the phone from him: “She said she loves me—she loves me.” My lightning and thunder guy. Maybe that was him talking to me that tempestuous stormy morning and I just needed to listen to hear him: “Gut it up girl—storm’s a comin’. Just be strong; it’s gonna be OK.” I’m gonna talk to him more often now; he just might have a pretty good vantage point for weathering the coming squalls.