So, she's huddled in the basement with my father while tornadoes swirl overhead. She's chatting at me like she's excited about going to a party. All fun, laughter, and expectations.
Warning sirens sound in the distance.
I was picturing them in the dank basement-- which is fairly large but not even close to "finished" with exposed masonry, plumbing, dirt, sump pump, bugs, etc. I asked, "did you bring down chairs so at least y'all could sit."
"Of course we have chairs." And it occurred to me that as we use the basement for so much storage, they have ample supplies. We keep many folding and antique chairs down there-- some for the summer parties and formal cushioned ones for larger indoor dinners, and they were in the company of catering glassware, the "downstairs fridge," dry pantry supplies, and of course, the wine cellar."Dad's sitting here reading Newsweek and I'm talking to you and listening to the radio having a glass of wine."
"Of course you are! You're sitting in the good chairs, surrounded by plastic cups, have got a fridge full of white handy and a room full of reds."
"They said be sure to take some water and I just figured there was plenty of soda and soft drinks down here we'd be fine."
My favorite line of the conversation: "When the sirens started and they told us to get to our 'safe place,' I grabbed your father and an opener and went downstairs."
Twister's a-comin', and my mother has the presence of mind to grab a corkscrew if they are going to have to spend the night camped out in the cellar.
GOT to love the Fran.
And now y'all understand a little bit more about me.
By the way, the image in this post: that's my mother's idea of a twister.
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