Last night, I lit my Stormwatch Yankee candle. It was the first time since the end of last summer that I let myself smell it–because once I do, I can’t get spring out of my head.
I knew that it was going to snow last night, and that it would put down thick, 6-inch blanket, but I needed to smell the storm.
Something else always happens around this time of year–the desire to watch Twister.
When Twister came out, my dad took me to see it in the theater with my cousin Meghan and her father, Todd. I was newly 11 years old, and I was dying to see this movie. I remember that people had been making a big deal about the sound, about how it really sounded like tornadoes coming at you. It sounded like a train.
I used to be irrationally afraid of storms. Within seconds of the first time any weatherman said “severe,” I was dragging my beloved things down the basement: my teddy bear, jewelry my grandparents had given me, journals, …my Beanie Babies (shut up–they were going to buy us a new house when ours blew away. I had Princess). But when Twister came out, it was like something that I couldn’t avoid.
In the theater, I never took my eyes off the screen. I found myself wanting to feel the wind that Bill and Jo got to feel. I wanted a khaki jumpsuit. I wanted to anchor myself to a pipe. I wanted to see flying cows. I wanted to kiss Bill Paxton.
Lucky for me (?) I’ve never seen a tornado in real life. I want to, but under certain conditions. I want to see it from a distance–you know, until I feel comfortable around them. And I want to see it out in the plains–in a field, where no one is living, and no one can get hurt, and where I can watch the field grass sway with such force that it’s hard to believe that the wind is invisible.
A man from my hometown chases. Maybe someday he’ll take me along.