1970

I’ve always loved a good storm. You would think I’d be epigenetically predisposed against a good rain, as my parents and their parents and their parents had a great deal of loss due to downpours. As an adult I can remember absolutely wonderful times in a storm. There was a time, on a covered porch, sitting out in a chair as thunder clapped around me, sending a couple of my small girls running into the house. Another time I was in the surf and a storm came through. Everybody ran for cover, but I really enjoyed the bigger waves, the rain, the lightening. A couple of my kids stayed with me for that one. The only casualty being an important hat.

I remember being 16, sailing a small Sunfish sailboat with a simple two line rigging in the waters just off Nags Head. The wind kicked up and the clouds rolled in and I capsized the vessel, unfortunately right into a school of jellyfish. This required the less than dramatic rescue from my dad and a lifeguard. Despite all of that, I look on that event with a great deal of fondness.

I’m not sure what I enjoy so much about a storm. They’re powerful, that’s for sure. And rain washes and feeds, I know I like that. The smell of a rain shower just can’t be duplicated, no matter how hard the candle companies try.

Now, I won’t start mowing the grass in a storm. Only an idiot would do that. But I confess, if I’m planning on mowing on a particular day and that day is calling for rain, I may take my time, hoping for a storm. If that happens I’ll finish the job, and I’ll enjoy every second of it.

The first time I remember enjoying a storm I was probably about six years old. We lived on a small court and there were neighborhood kids my age in that court. A typical summer day meant that we would all be ushered out of our houses in order to find some type of entertainment for ourselves. This usually involved bikes, dirt, forts, and cap guns. If it rained, however, we had to come in, but only until it stopped. My mom used to say some people didn’t have sense enough to come in when it rained, and I guess she was talking about me. I had to be told to come in. But I would wait until it stopped and then I would rejoin my compadres and unpause our adventures. After a rain, however, we always had a different plan.

When it rains, at least on our court, water would come down from the streets above us and create a small river by the curb. That river would flow for quite a while after a rain, but our time was limited. While it rained we worked fast to build our rafts out of popsicle sticks for their voyage by the curb. As soon as we were allowed, we would all meet back in the court to see who’s boat was the best and could travel the farthest.

Now, these days you can buy bags of popsicle sticks. But not back then. Back then we collected popsicle sticks the old fashioned way; from popsicles. It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it. Once we had enough sticks, we could build our boats.

My first boat got swept away into the sewer. That’s how I learned to attach some kite string to the boat for guaranteed retrieval.

These were the things that occupied my mind and my time and my attention in 1970. So much happening around me, oblivious to me.

I didn’t care that Kansas City won the Super Bowl. I also wasn’t paying attention to the new band that debuted on the American Bandstand on my birthday that year: The Jackson 5.

I missed the postal workers strike. And the Concorde’s first supersonic flight. I couldn’t have picked Nixon out of a lineup. I was unfazed that Paul McCartney said he was leaving the Beatles. And I’m sure I watched Apollo 13 blast off, but I can’t remember being too concerned about their problems after that.

Diana Crump became the first woman jockey to ride in the Kentucky Derby. But that bit of news passed me by. Jimi Hendrix died that year. I didn’t know about him and I didn’t know what an overdose was. I was also unaware of Viet Nam, and equally unaware of what a protest was. I would only learn later on in life what happened that year at Kent State.

I was also unaware of my mom’s addiction and the strain that was putting on the family. I was equally unaware of the circumstances that made my mom’s addiction take root. I thought, in 1970, that my grandfather was a nice man, as most grandfathers are. I didn’t know my grandmother at one point jumped out of a two story window to avoid a beating by him. And I didn’t know that his grandmother ran a whorehouse. Of course, I didn’t know what a whorehouse was either. I didn’t know my aunt ran her car over a cliff as the better option.

In 1970, I didn’t know much at all.

In 1971 a new book came out. “The Monster at the End of This Book.” Grover, who you might remember from Sesame Street, was the star of the book. He repeatedly gave the reader a warning that there was, in fact, a monster at the end of the book. He asked the reader to stop turning pages because such behavior would inevitably lead to the end of the book. Where the certainty of a monster waited.

Spoiler alert: It wasn’t as bad as Grover made it out to be. In fact, the monster at the end of the book was actually Grover. And while Grover might have some monster like qualities, we all know that he had a kind heart with no ill intentions.

So life progressed and I continued to turn page after page. Quickly, in fact. Impatiently, even. I couldn’t wait to be double digits, then I couldn’t wait to be a teenager. I was eager to turn 16, then 18, then 21. I was eager to “be out on my own.” With each turn of the page I came closer to the monster at the end of the book.

Now that I’ve met the monster I can safely say that I wish I could unread that book. I’m eager to unknow so many things. But I can’t unlearn; the genie is out of the bottle. I really miss not knowing how the sausage is made. I miss the simplicity of childhood, where my world was small and I was surrounded by people who tried to guide me, provide for me, and protect me.

I miss 1970.

But even now, from time to time, I find myself in the middle of a rain storm, smiling at the small rivers flowing down the side of the street. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.