Friday Night Rain
When Tropical Storm Fay let loose on the Texas coastal plains in early September of 2002, it appeared she planned to stay. Houston’s Channel 13 predicted heavy rain, flash floods, and strong wind gusts. I was grateful we only had torrential rains and glad we were all home safe for the evening.
My husband, Wayne, sipped Dr Pepper, his only vice. No one could believe he was fifty-five, he didn’t look over forty. He was strong and vibrant, with sandy brown hair and an almost-constant smile. We lived in a beautiful home on four lush acres in a small town sixty miles outside Houston. Mostly unheard of, like most small towns, Harrison was a wonderful place to raise a family. I remember glancing up from the stove to see our barefoot kids blissfully cartwheeling on the plush grass, swinging till toes touched cotton ball clouds, or zipping down the long slide.
Life was balanced, or as balanced as possible with two careers and three active children. Our family was healthy, happy, and busy, and my life operated at a steady trot with time allowed for relaxing stops along the way.
A junior in high school, Christine was ecstatic to spend a rare Friday night at home, which added excitement to the dinner table as lightning blasted across the backyard sky. Between games and practice for cheerleading, band, volleyball, debate, and more, Christine was glad for an evening to recover. She was petite, only 5’ 2”, a trait inherited from her dad’s side; but the blue eyes and almond hair came from both of us. Christine was sweet, thoughtful, responsible, and an overachiever of biblical proportions.
Christine flashed an orthodontist-approved smile as she grabbed a slice of pizza. “I’m glad the football game was cancelled. It would be awful cheering in this rain!”
I beamed. “You need a night off. I’m glad everyone is home safe tonight.”
We watched the lightning flash. Wayne and twelve-year-old Shelby slowly counted in unison: “One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand,” then stopped as deep thunder took over. Wayne announced how many miles we were from the storm’s center.
My “glad to be home safe” comment led to an expected reaction from Shelby, who lived to be with friends and wasn’t happy stuck at home with family. Shelby noticed early that perfection was taken by her older sister, so she settled for being Shelby. She shared coloring and stature with her sister, but the Texas-size spirit belonged only to Shelby. Shelby was bright, quick, fearless, and extremely social.
Right on cue, Shelby asked, “Can Madison come over?” We heard this so frequently, Wayne used it as her middle name, as in, “Here comes Shelby ‘Can-Madison-come-over’ Milberger.”
“No, honey. This is a big storm. There might even be flooding,” I replied.
Unfazed, she continued, “But she lives just down the street.”
“No, Shelby, not tonight. No one is coming or going; we’re all staying home.”
“But her parents don’t care.” She was determined, and just warming up.
“Shelby!” I responded sharply. We’d done this dance many times.
“Okay; so, like, maybe tomorrow?”
“Sure. Maybe tomorrow.”
She grinned down at her plate.
Our quiet, thoughtful eleven-year-old, Justin, slid a slice of pizza from the box. He glanced up with clear saucer-sized eyes, “So, Mom, will I have to be in all those activities like Christine when I’m in high school?”
I stammered, then said it wasn’t required to be in every high school club, sport, and activity, like his big sister.
“Good!” he replied with more energy than I expected. I added disclaimers about how fun it was to be active and engaged, but he didn’t respond. Christine chimed in to say she loved being busy, but Justin was finished with the pizza and the conversation. He reached for his crutches, then hopped up from the antique oak table. He had broken his leg in gym class a few weeks earlier and would spend six weeks in a full cast. While Justin arranged crutches under each arm, Wayne asked if he needed anything.
“Cancel homework for all of sixth grade?” Justin grinned, then gracefully swung across the kitchen tile. Justin had a dry sense of humor, and was bright, kind, and quiet. He wasn’t interested in following either sister, and wasn’t an overachiever or a fearless extrovert. A couple of friends, free time to kick back, a great book, and he was happy. His Pokémon phase was over, but he still enjoyed watching Homer Simpson grouse on TV.
Shelby put her plate in the sink, then followed Justin to the den. Shelby was starting seventh grade, and Justin was in sixth. While they were twenty months apart in age, Justin’s late summer birthdate put him only one grade behind Shelby.
Shelby was proving to be a handful, and we struggled to keep her in check. Last year she was sent home from a church dance for inappropriate behavior, then tried to sneak out after midnight a few months later. She didn’t sneak out in the traditional sense. She warned she might leave after we fell asleep since she couldn’t get permission to go where she wanted. She was eleven, so from my perspective there was no place she could go after midnight. That episode ended well because we intercepted her farewell note, and her, before she implemented her amazingly flawed plan. The interception occurred because I lay in a frozen-awake state until her note silently swished under our bedroom door. Not sleeping wasn’t a sustainable strategy for me, so clearly the teen years wouldn’t be easy.
As I contemplated age thirteen, I felt I was playing chess for her soul. She’d make a move, I’d block her, and then we’d repeat. We did more than play imagined chess for her life. She saw a counselor, and Wayne and I had joined her for family sessions the year before. By all accounts we were doing a good job, but good parenting didn’t guarantee safe children, especially during the teen years. Shelby was terribly bored in school, but there were few alternatives in our small town.
Christine rinsed her plate, then joined her siblings in the den for a rare evening at home. Looking back, I should have hugged her again and told her to slow down. I did so, many times, but she was determined to overachieve, then secure a slot in an excellent university. She loved being involved in virtually every activity, something that was only possible in a small high school. She didn’t rest during the football halftime show, but dashed back on the field in her cheerleading uniform to perform with the marching band. She remained double-booked, Hermione-style, all through high school.
Wayne and I gazed at the towering pecan trees slowly swaying in the driving rain. I noticed water pooling in the field behind the house, then asked if it would reach us. I was, and still am, a world-class worrier. I could teach worrying at the graduate level.
Wayne smiled, “No. We’re in the five-hundred-year flood plain, so that’s really unlikely.”
Wanting a distraction from the storm’s incessant rain and potential flooding, I asked Wayne what he liked best about our remodeling project. To adjust to our family’s changing needs, we’d transformed the three-car garage into a den, laundry room, bathroom, and Christine’s bedroom.
“What do I like best? Easy; I like the fact that it’s over.” He came from a long line of teasers; it must be genetic for a trait to be that strong.
“No. I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Maybe he felt sorry for me, because he relented. “I like the additional bedroom and bathroom for Christine. Adding the den makes it more livable.” His smile lines deepened. “You probably enjoy the large laundry room, right?” He waited for me to react to the laundry comment, but I was too preoccupied. He leaned back in the steel-gray leather recliner, “I guess I like the big detached garage most. I like having my tools in one location, and a place to work when the weather’s bad.”
Wayne was a mechanical engineer turned turf-grass farmer and rancher who focused our investments into farm and ranch purchases because land was something “they couldn’t make more of.” Maintaining tools, tractors, and other farm equipment was a core value, and having space to work was important to him.
“If you could take anything in a fire, what furniture would you take?” I was so happy with our life I wanted to extend the conversation.
“You know I’d take my desk and chair.” Wayne loved his gigantic antique oak desk and matching “king” chair with ornate arms and legs.
“I’d take my bookcase.” Elaborate carved doors graced the front of my handsome antique oak bookcase. I could have selected the pedestal kitchen table or the leaded-glass china cabinet beside it. We were surrounded by items I loved, eclectic pieces that brought beauty, interest, and comfort to our home. Countless afternoons spent tipping BBQ-scented auction paddles under canvas tents while our children played in the dirt near our folding metal chairs had paid off.
My gaze lingered on the oak Windsor rocking chair next to a large potted fern; my reading spot would be ready when I had time in a few years. Behind the chair was a huge gray river-rock fireplace with a sandstone ledge and large windows flanking both sides. As toddlers, the kids spent hours vrooming Matchbox cars and skirting talkative Little People along that ledge, occasionally stopping to peer at a kitty cat, squirrel, or daddy in the yard.
As I watched the rain outside the kitchen window, I remembered how booming thunderstorms prompted the kids to play “hurricane” when they were little. They draped quilts over the couch and confiscated kitchen chairs, then scattered through the house gathering pillows, quilts, and a pink plastic tea set. Christine directed the action and held the primary speaking role. As toddlers, Shelby and Justin performed age-appropriate parts. Once the tent was stocked, Christine peered past the quilt-covered doorway until she spotted Justin dutifully tottering back and forth across the tile. Christine declared in a concerned adult voice, “Oh, no! There’s a little lost boy outside!”
They’d coax the lonely child inside with pretzels while Christine continued her reassuring banter: “Don’t worry, Honey, we’ll find your mommy and daddy soon. But you can stay with us until the storm is over.”
The lost child was always pre-verbal, or in shock, because he would simply nod or shake his head in response to questions. This exchange was relayed loudly for the rest of the world, “He is lost but he does have a mommy and daddy!” Over time, they’d switch roles, but the lost child never had a speaking part, just emphatic head movements and serious eye contact. Silent movies had nothing on this troupe.
The game went on for hours, with necessary breaks to retrieve a stuffed animal or other creature comfort. They ducked out of the tent with a hurried, “Be right back!” to dart through the pretend rainstorm. They played with a vengeance.
Their squeals of delight sounded sweeter and more precious against the pounding rain. Watching their joyful production fill those lazy, long afternoons while the wind buffeted towering trees nourished me at a deep level. Of course our children valued their shelter most when it was at risk. Terrifying lightning flashes and thunder whose intensity overtook all other sounds confirmed the fragility, and importance, of shelter. Remaining safe and dry inside their tent, inside our house, was so vital they enshrined it through play.
That evening, Wayne and I settled in the living room to watch A Beautiful Mind while the kids watched a movie in the den. It was wonderful spreading out to two living areas now that remodeling was over.
Around 4:30 a.m. I padded to the kitchen for the fourth time to check the backyard. Regular checks didn’t stop the rain and pooling water, but I was undeterred since conscientiousness paid off handsomely in many aspects of my life. I flipped on the outdoor lights to peer through the window. Wayne’s slippers trod softly on the tile, then soundlessly across the living room area rug.
He leaned over my shoulder. “Is it still there?”
I turned to him. “Now it has waves!”
“Never thought this property would be lakefront,” he chuckled.
“This is serious,” I chided. “We have a lake lapping in the backyard and the rain is relentless!”
Wayne waited for the deep thunder to subside. “Don’t worry. That low spot is over twenty yards away. The water won’t get to the house.”
Part of Wayne’s turf grass skill set included determining and modifying how water drains across land, as well as understanding how land holds water. When he pointed out a low spot and said we didn’t need to worry, that carried the weight of the conversation.
Since neither of us could sleep, we decided to dress, then drive through the neighborhood to check other low-lying areas. I stepped into the thick damp air under the shelter of the porte-cochere while rain plummeted in solid sheets on either side. I’d taken showers with less water pressure!
Wayne hopped in the truck and pushed the garage door remote. “I checked the rain gauge. We got nineteen inches since yesterday; this is a really big rain!”
Excited to be on a pre-sunrise adventure together, I chattered as we crept along the dark road. A neighbor’s driveway disappeared under a small lake spanning the yards of several homes. Wayne rotated the truck so the headlights illuminated the water-covered driveway, then leaned over the steering wheel to say they’d be stuck home for a while. Again, I asked if he thought the water would reach our house. He reassured me that it wouldn’t; that everything would be okay.
The beating rain, deep rumbling thunder, and frantic windshield wipers filled in the blanks as we drove to town. I stared at the drainage ditch brimming with water.
Wayne glanced over while stopped at a red light, “I forgot to tell you, the bathroom floor had water on it last night.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “We’ve never had water come in. Where did it come from?”
“Don’t know. It was on the floor between the shower and bathtub. It was less than one cup of water, so don’t worry. It will be fine.”
Once we returned home, I checked our bathroom to make sure the floor was still dry. I watched the rain pound the ferns and bushes outside the huge windows flanking the bathtub. We’d had plenty of rainstorms, but never a leak. One cup of water on a tile floor really wasn’t cause for alarm, at least at that time.
By late morning the rain finally stopped and the sun burst out with a vengeance well known to the Texas Gulf coast. The steam bath resumed; it hit 94 degrees with 87 percent humidity later that day. I said a brief prayer of gratitude that the storm was over and our house was undamaged.
Wayne rushed in the back door after checking the garden, declaring, “Man, it’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol out there!” He was a native Texan, and his slow drawl gave him away quickly. In fact, it drew initial shock, then smiles, when he was introduced to my East Coast brothers. I admit during my first years in Houston I assumed people who talked slow also thought slow, if thinking occurred at all. I soon learned that not sounding like a Midwestern newscaster didn’t mean they couldn’t count or do differential calculus.
Wayne finally planted our first garden earlier that spring. It was huge. It produced so many vegetables that the kids invented excuses to avoid harvesting duty. Wayne and I were thrilled when the green beans and okra plants towered above us, and delighted in finding the inevitable hidden gigantic zucchini. The vegetables grew almost by the hour, and the result of a full day of sun was amazing to witness. We lunched on a microwave mix of fresh sliced yellow squash, onion, tomatoes, basil, and oregano.
Wayne said the big storm had knocked fruit off the side orchard, so we’d have fewer persimmons than expected. The kids grew up eating bright-orange persimmon slices, crowding their dad during story time to beg for more “simmons.” Those days were gone. They were great kids, but they didn’t crowd close to us anymore, for any reason.
I closed the heavy French glass office doors to leave the Saturday noise and bustle behind. It was rare for me to work weekends, but I needed to revise a training program I was presenting next week.
I’d worked from home as a management consultant since Christine was born. Our recent conversion of the formal dining and living rooms to offices created the ideal home office setting for Wayne and me. The French glass doors provided sound-proofing with a view between each office, plus I could easily see our entryway and Wayne had a view of the kitchen through the butler’s pantry. The kids knew not to interrupt phone conversations but waved for attention when needed. The sound-proofing allowed the kids to listen to music, watch TV, or goof off after they got off the school bus, as we worked a bit longer. I was thrilled to work from home and have a quiet office to do so. While waiting for the desktop to power up, I brushed a speck of dust off the forest green marble inlaid at the center of my antique desk, another auction find.
Later that afternoon, I heard Wayne singing Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” in the hall. He usually sang as he walked through the house. “The Bare Necessities” from Disney’s The Jungle Book and “Baa Baa Black Sheep” were standbys when the kids were little, and his current playlist included The Commodores’ “She’s a Brick House,” B.B. King’s “The Thrill Is Gone,” and “If I Were a Fat Man,” his version of the song from Fiddler on the Roof. The kids loved hearing him sing, and his playlist reminded me that all was good in our world.
We’d worked hard to create a perfect setting for children. My psychology background and my own teen experience made me apprehensive about the terrifying minefields presented by the teen years. I was determined to provide a safe haven to allow our kids to navigate the potentially difficult years ahead. They did well in school, were involved in activities, and had friends they grew up with, all important elements for plotting a successful course through the teen years. Shelby would be a challenge, but we were as prepared as we could be.
I glanced at the plush carpet grass outside my office window, then spotted Shelby and two girlfriends riding bikes along the street. Lord, have mercy, of course she’s not holding the handlebars. Shelby pedaled at an easy pace; her arms balanced straight to either side with her palms cupping the wind. Her friends trailed in a V formation like the foundation of any respectable parade, but the second-tier girls possessed enough sense—or fear—to grasp their handlebars. I’d warned Shelby to hold on because just one rock or one hole in the pavement could cause a fall, but she was undaunted. No matter how much I pushed for safety, she spirited along her own fearless path.
While I loved that our kids could play in the yard and ride their bikes without supervision, it took years for me to adapt to life in a small Texas town. After visiting Harrison’s library and discovering the high school had advanced classes and a chess club, I assumed that a small town was a tiny version of the suburbs I’d experienced growing up in Maryland. After moving, I realized I missed sidewalks, museums, and restaurants. I made peace with my choice when Christine was three and Shelby an infant. I panicked after discovering Christine’s bed empty and the garage door gaping open early one morning. I was about to combust into a puff of smoke when I spied a tiny body on the road a football field away. Christine marched purposefully, head held high and pudgy arms swinging wide on her journey home. My panic subsided when I realized she looked happy. After we hugged, Christine said last evening’s teen babysitter said Christine could visit without her baby sister, so she’d dressed and left early that morning. Christine located the sitter’s house down the street, knocked, opened the unlocked door, found the sitter’s room, and crawled in bed with her.
Christine sighed, raised her tiny shoulders to her ears, then exhaled heavily. “She wouldn’t wake up, so I came home.”
All my complaints about lack of amenities disappeared. I hugged Christine, then we toasted 8 a.m. with waffles and syrup. While our small town wasn’t perfect, it kept our curious three-year-old safe. I’d been grateful for that ever since.
Later Saturday afternoon, one day after the big rain, I paused from work to check the laundry. I smiled every time I walked through the computer area we created between the kitchen and den. The old walk-through utility room now featured a desk, chair, and the kids’ computer screen facing out for adult scrutiny. The internet was new, and young users often ended up on the wrong website without trying. Based on walk-by scans, Shelby and Justin stuck with science games, math games, and Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego?
That evening Justin and a friend watched Shrek in the den. Justin propped his leg on the couch while his friend relaxed in the recliner. A few weeks earlier I sewed four gigantic floor pillows with a purple, turquoise, and gold Route 66 scene, then piled them in a wicker basket for extra seating for additional friends─our remodeling was officially complete! Shelby spent the night at a friend’s house, but Christine stayed home to study. Christine often went out with friends, but stayed home to catch up when homework and debate research was too demanding.
We were members of a small congregation with an intelligent, warm pastor, and if it was like the others, that Sunday’s sermon was amazing. I’m sure I enjoyed it and expected to reflect on her message during the week. We probably chatted with friends after the service, gratefully noting the water subsiding from fields and ditches. Relieved to escape rain damage and having caught up on work, I was a bit on autopilot; it was time to relax and enjoy a lazy Sunday afternoon. We would have piled through the side door with groceries, Wayne singing, “Camptown ladies, sing this song,” with the kids joining in on the “Doo dah, doo dah” refrain. (Years later, Justin sometimes still called his dad “Doo Dah.”)
