Thunderstorms on the Front Porch

When we were young, my brother Steve built a rain machine that worked. He spent many hours arranging what he called operating parts in a shoebox—Legos, an old railroad tie, a stick, and other ingredients I don’t recall. Once he set everything in place, he marked “Sun, Rain, Storm” and announced it was ready for testing.

Naturally, no one believed it could work, but within minutes of each setting, the weather shifted to Steve’s marker. Michigan summer weather is changeable, even over a range of hours, but Steve was convinced and the results were eerie. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch it, though, and once, in a scuffle, the box hit the ground.

“It’s ruined,” Steve said, and sighed.

“No, no, you can put it back together,” we said. “Here, we’ve got all the parts.”

He shrugged. “It took too long to build. I can’t do it again.”

Nor could we interest him in trying, so our family was left with the memory of a working rain machine.

Funny, I know it had to rain and storm during school vacation in the summer, but my memories are of warm, sunny days perfect for riding bikes to the Heights, exploring the woods, visiting friends, playing outside.

I once had a contract secretarial job at the American Center tower in Southfield. From the highest levels of the 25-story building, the theory of a predominant wind was verified. The tops of every tree bent in the same direction. That fascinated me, so I tested it in other locations, using the highest levels I could find. Seemed true everywhere.

“So, that’s why thunderstorms always come from the west,” I thought, but that turned out not to be the reason at all. The jet stream—fast air currents—flows from west to east, which explained one of my favorite activities—watching storms blow through from our front porch from the same direction.

When my parents bought 3156 Caroline, the front porch was enclosed with small windows across the sides and on both sides of the front door. After a few years, Dad knocked out the walls between the porch and living room to make room for his grand piano and large family. That was a cheerful room—pale blue walls, dark green carpet, white ceiling. I spent many happy childhood hours listening to Bolero and reading Ray Bradbury in a land of indoor summer. Much later, the walls and front porch were replaced, giving a roofed porch with half walls, open for fresh air.

Perfect for enjoying the neighborhood and thunderstorms.

Married and raising children, Dave and I lived in my childhood home for many years, and a favorite pastime was savoring afternoon or evening storms. First, the birds grew restless as they searched for a waiting place. The wind picked up in short gusts, and if the storm was strong enough, leaves blew backward. Thunder rumbled in the west and clouds gathered.

“Hurry, put the coffee on, it’s coming,” one of us would say. We’d settle in lawn chairs on the covered porch and watch clouds, lightning, and rain move over the woods to our left, up Caroline Street toward Squirrel Road, and beyond. Unless the wind blew rain in, we could stay for most of the show, sipping coffee and enjoying small town pleasures.

I miss that front porch. I miss those years in the Heights. I miss relishing thunderstorms from my safe perch.

If I had Steve’s rain machine, I’d set it to storm in the evening when the air was mild and the coffee fresh, and settle back on that front porch.

Question One—where do birds go in a storm?

Question Two—did you have a front porch?