I'm sure I'll change my mind some time on Sunday, but part of me is giddy at the prospect of really horrifically bad weather. I love walking in the rain and I love hearing thunder and lightning and sheets of water spraying at 75-degree angles.
Maybe it's related to my anxiety. When the clouds go black and seem to bubble, and the thunder booms and the lightning flashes and everyone is running for cover, I actually feel relieved. There's a moment when everyone is in a panic, and it feels like we're all equal at that point.
New England is more familiar with blizzards than hurricanes, but of the few we've had (or were supposed to have) I remember Gloria best. We were living in a set of housing projects in Manchester, CT, a place by the name of Squire Village. Mom made us stay in narrow hall just in front of the bathroom on the first floor. She read. I don't recall how my sister and I passed the time, just that when we were finally allowed out the sky was this deep gray, and it was somehow like being on the bottom of the ocean. The only casualties nearby were a pair of enormous trees a street over, which we played on until we were shooed away by concerned adults.
Maybe that's it then. I think my memories of storms generally end pleasantly. Or maybe it's the Scandinavian-ness calling out to me, saying "Hey, hail Thor, right?"
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