An Incomplete Bestiary of Storms

We are entering summer storm season here in Maryland, and in the sticky heat I am reminded what unique creatures these storms are. When I think of a “summer storm” I think of something quite specific: the storms at my grandparent’s house in New England. We spent several summers there when I was young, and I have vivid memories of the storms, so different from the storms at home. These storms were exotic, exciting, and I played out all sorts of stories in my head as they approached on thund’rous paws. If we were out on a walk (a common occurrence) I was a runaway princess seeking shelter in the woods. If we were already indoors, I was a princess in a tower picking delicately at my embroidery in the dimming light, a novice at a convent whose pestle moved ever more slowly as the storm bloomed beyond the window, a bored miller’s daughter neglecting all her chores, all projecting themselves out into that wild whipping gray, imagining that if only they could step out into the elements, surely some great destiny would find them.

Of course, these were storms that, while strong and loud, did not cross the line into danger. A storm that turns truly dangerous is another thing entirely. But storms that approach that edge without crossing it have an intense power and magic. The feeling of the sky paying such intense attention to your own little patch of planet. As I’ve lived more places I’ve come to appreciate what unique creatures regional storms are. The same way each place has its own flora and fauna, each has its own storms, each with their own personalities. So, here follows an incomplete bestiary of storms.

Hawaii’s storms are a vast bird with gray feathers and lightning in its eye. Its wings whip up the waves and its beak snaps tree trunks like so much kindling. It smells first like the sea, and then like mud, and it is not to be trifled with. These storms tend to be rare and powerful. They sweep in across the ocean, often crossing into more dangerous territory. They are distinct from our many-faced rains. The rains can be heavy or pass in a mist that never even dims the sun, but if we hear thunder, or see lightning out on the ocean, we know are in for something different: A proper storm. We batten down the hatches, hope the power stays on, hope the only road out doesn’t flood, and shake our heads disapprovingly at those one neighbors who filled in their gulch. (Don’t fill in the gulches! The water always comes back, and the water always wins!) Under the vast beating wings, the ocean rises and rears up, washing boats ashore and sand out to sea. Coastal roads become inundated with surf. Up on the mountain, the cows have long since taken cover, and flash floods and falling trees are a genuine danger. But these are not summer storms, this beast appears in winter, our wet season.

Central Maryland’s storms come in summer, and they are very much like the ones I remember from my grandparents’ house. I think they resemble nothing so much as a big leafy green dog. And I do mean leafy! Sycamore leaves make up its back, and oak leaves frame its eyes. Its tail is a whip of willow and its belly (which it loves to have rubbed) is all pale-bellied poplar. Rolling and rambunctious, he just wants to play. He has brought his ball of thunder and says throw, throw, throw! Very insistent, very sweet, and juuuust big enough to make you worry that he might hurt you with sheer enthusiasm. And we must not forget his breath! This storm-dog pants until it has fogged up every window between the Appalachians and the sea. The specific confluence of heavy air, the shift in the light, the thunder, the wind barrelling through the lush trees, the heat condensing until it transmutes itself into cool water, the intensity of petrichor. This is the archetypal summer storm to me.

Central Pennsylvania’s storms are akin to Maryland’s, but they feel a bit more ponderous. Our leafy green dog has become old, and he brings not a ball, but a bone, and he goes gnaw, gnaw, gnaw, crunch, crunch, crunch as the thunder rolls out in sheets over the trees. He lets out a big sigh, and the wind ripples the air. At least in summer. As for winter, central Pennsylvania is the only place I’ve lived that gets proper snow storms, and this is a gentle fluffy snow-bear of a dog. These storms are further back in my memory, 2004-2009 to be precise, but I vividly remember the first heavy snowfall I saw in Pennsylvania. I had been in snow before—besides having visited the mainland in winter, we can also get snow on Mauna Kea—but it felt so different in its full winter context. It was the night before my 18th birthday (this is also the first time I realized that I had a winter birthday) and I will never forget the silence, the perfect quiet. The snow came down and down in huge flakes and the beauty of it cut right through my homesickness. Loreena McKennit’s song Snow will always bring this gentle giant of a storm back to me.

Heading south, middle Tennessee’s storms are the most frightening of the bunch. Because in middle Tennessee a storm in never only a storm; it comes with a chance of tornadoes. Tennessee’s storms are chimeric creatures. They have tails like snakes (these bring the tornadoes) and their green scales reflect off the congealing clouds giving them a mildly threatening yellow-green hue. They have bird’s feet, taloned and bright, with which to throw down hail. No one has ever seen its head. Some say it is a mountain lion that roars thunder, others that it is a black bear searching for a missing cub. Whatever it is, the chimera has tricky habit of announcing its arrival with just enough notice to provide a sense of menace but not enough time to reach cover. Like other continental storms, the chimera is less personal, more sprawling, and drawn to experimentation and improvisation.

And then there is the Atlantic in storm, which in my childhood I saw a few times and have recently experienced again. There is nothing quite like the Atlantic in a rage. If the Pacific brings us a vast gray seabird with salt water beading down on its wings, the Atlantic brings us the kraken. It is almost as if the sea is the instigator and the sky is simply following orders. The waves stack and thrash, churn and writhe, and the land lays down for the water to wash over. The marshes are refreshed and the somewhat stagnant smell of the coast turns a sharp ozonic brackish. Also, the birds are in league with the Kraken, of this I am certain. Or they are sworn enemies. I am certain of one of these things. Whatever the nature of the relationship, it does not seem to be neutral.

Looking east, we have Belgium’s storms, like a big furry sky dwelling creature (Appa!) who has simply decided that this would be a great place for a nap. It circles three times to make the sky comfy, flops down, and begins to snore. And goodness is it hard to rouse! And when it does eventually rouse, and the thunder stops, well, it just sits there! For days! Weeks! Months! Shedding that fur all the while! I remember once looking out my window in Leuven and thinking, I have not seen the sun for three whole months. I was so astonished I didn’t even feel astonished. That being said, Belgium has a knack for feeling unreasonably cozy in the rain. We shall chalk this up to the sympathetic powers of our sky beast’s fluffy soft gray coat. As it comforts and warms the beast, so it’s downy energies comfort and warm people snug in their homes, surrounded by a good throw, good chocolate, and soft twinkly lights.

And those are all the storms I have met! My little menagerie of storms! I hope I travel more places, maybe even live in more places, so I might continue adding these cloudy critters to my world. What are the storms like where you live? What creatures do they evoke? Have you met a cat-like storm? Have I completely missed the mark on one of these and you want to impart wisdom? Seriously, I’d love to know! Use my contact page to send me an email detailing your particular sky beast, even if you’re reading this in the far future. Perhaps together, we can populate the world with 1,000 furry, feathery, be-scaled wonders of the aerial realm!

And to close, here is Phildel’s Storm Song. “I’ll send a storm to capture your heart and bring you home.” Until next month, my friends. May your storms bring you your damp and glorious destinies in their paws, and claws, and jaws. Now go! Dance in the rain. And tell your particular beastie I said hi!

The art featured with this post is a detail from “Homecoming from the Fields Before the Storm” by the Czech artist Adolf Zdrazila (1868-1942). Sourced from Artvee.