“Once upon a time, they say,

 The rain came down,

 day after day.

 Pouring, pouring from the sky,

 Till not a spot on earth was dry!”

Over and over, I read these words to our children from a tiny book by Dorothy Bell Briggs. Noah’s Ark was a favorite of each of our toddlers over the course of a decade. My husband and I may still say to each other during a rainstorm: ‘Pouring, pouring from the sky!’ Makes us smile.

We do not always smile when it rains. Like when we came home from a rained-out softball game to find a half dozen neighbors (including a couple unfamiliar faces) feverishly sweeping water away from our garage door. Earnest effort, but not before our basement morphed into a wading pool complete with floating toys. Or when we carpeted a game room in another house, only to end up with wall-to-wall sponge in a matter of minutes as water gushed through the window well. Suddenly we sprinkled our daily lexicon with talk of disinfectant, gloves, shop vac, sump pump, French drain, and trash bags-- so many trash bags. All this work and expense from mere remnants of hurricanes occurring quite far from us; no comparison to the destruction and untold suffering from being close to full-blown tornadic storms and surges. “Rain, rain, go away.”

My husband and son were once half a mile from where a ‘double tornado’ touched down. In 1998 no smart phone filled my husband’s pocket and meteorologists on TV lagged in their warnings—I suppose Pittsburgh’s hilly terrain gave a false sense of security. Two dads and two ten-year-olds sat under cover behind home plate at a Pirate game. A couple of innings in, the sky let loose, and the umpire called a rain delay. The grounds crew covered the infield and parked a pickup truck on the flapping tarp! Winds reached 110 miles per hour. The stadium lights dimmed then brightened in counterpoint to the sky becoming brighter then darker. The resulting light show excited the little boys more than the win!

Everyone reacts differently to storms—some children are told that the claps of thunder are the sounds of the saints bowling in Heaven –quite a scene to imagine. My mother could do little to ease any fear I might have shown when thunder began as she headed to the fruit cellar in our basement— her personal storm cellar. There, with no windows to see the lightning strikes, she stayed, and she prayed. “Deo mi scansa” her inherited reflexive response to each boom. Roughly translated, it is begging God to not let me be touched by the lightning.

Upstairs my father led me out to our covered porch where we enjoyed the excitement, showing his daughter how not to be afraid. His method worked. I do enjoy watching storms from the safety of our enclosed porch, while repeating “Deo mi scansa”!

 Lilly Kauffman is a non-fiction writer who was privileged to work as both librarian and a teacher. Her essays, whether serious or humorous, capture the experiences that allow us to laugh and grieve. Family and faith inform her writings. She is currently working on several book projects: A Mother Grieves in Ink, Ampersand, and Lil Letters.