I’m weathering the storms with memories of Gramma

The sky was dark. Rain pelted the earth. Winds violently scattered debris and autumn leaves. Warning sirens blared.

It was the perfect time for a story.

The severe Tuesday storm hit during my first morning class. My 23 seventh graders plus a few nearby refugees sheltered in a small conference room — no windows, no glass. They sat hip to hip along the walls, trying to remain silent as we’ve practiced over and over again.

We needed silence so that we could listen for further instructions as needed. In that silence, as I noticed a few worried faces, I heard a whisper from my late Gramma, survivor of many a storm.

“Tell them a story.”

Now, there are many tales about Gramma that I could tell, but I didn’t want them rolling on the crowded floor in laughter, so I chose one from my own childhood, one that they hadn’t already heard.

“While we’re waiting,” I said just above a whisper, “I’ll tell you a story I’ve never told another class before.”

My confession began. I told them about the 1975 Audi 100 that I bought for $600 cash in high school and that gobbled up many more dollars in constant repairs. I told them that sometimes I didn’t follow my parents’ rules, which would sometimes lead to me being grounded, which would sometimes lead to my car keys being taken away.

“I was a senior in high school, you see, and I couldn’t stand the injustice of having to ride the school bus with freshmen. So I hatched a plan.”

I convinced Karen and Swati, two of my best friends, to rescue me from transportation humiliation. They would pick me up in the morning not at my front door, of course, but a block over, not far from the bus stop. When and how we made such arrangements in an era before texting and email, I don’t recall.

At the appointed time I walked to the end of our street, turned left and then left again, stopping at a corner house for the rendezvous. That’s when I became nervous. What if someone were to see me and report me? This was long before Ring doorbells, but suburban neighborhoods have always had their own built-in surveillance system — the parent network.

My fear led me to a row of hedges in that neighbor’s front yard, where I stayed until Karen’s brown Toyota Corolla rolled by. Then I popped up and danced out of the bushes, waving my arms to make sure I caught my ride.

“I looked ridiculous,” I told them. “And this is not something that you should ever do. Face your consequences and move on.”

By the time my story was over, a colleague let us know that the worst of the storm had passed. Our shelter in place was not yet lifted, though, so the students remained seated and mostly silent as I marveled at my good fortune.

I considered the years of Texas storms and personal storms I’ve weathered and survived. I thought of how the course of a life can change in an instant — because of human choices or natural causes or both. And I thought of Gramma, who grew up in Alabama, raised her children in West Texas and spent retirement in Central Texas.

She taught me how to shelter from literal storms — with a mattress in the bathtub plus a spoon and some Blue Bell buttered pecan, just in case. (You want your last meal to be a good one. Also, this is not an option when you’re in charge of a gaggle of children.)

And the way she lived taught me how to endure the more common metaphorical storms — with a sense of humor, a wallop of humility and recognition that whatever you get through will one day be a story to tell.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.