Month: February 2020

Humanness in the Face of Hurricane Harvey

August 17, 2017–September 2, 2017

by Suzie Peterson 

It was hot, humid, with pretty blue skies that Friday morning when I was visiting my family in Katy, Texas. Predictions for later that day, Hurricane Harvey’s Category 4 winds and rain were aligned to slam the Texas coastline, for days.

Whipping winds and relentless, slanted rain pummeled. The cul-de-sac filled with water, surrounding roads impassable. Water climbed the driveway. Drainage from the house gutters and downspouts resembled mini rivers.           

A tornado alert blasted simultaneously on our cell phones. Contained panic overtook me; we should be running, hiding, taking cover. The family remained calm. Within an hour, another alert, and another. By the third alert, we were scrambling!

One tornado alert on a cell phone can stir chatter for a day. Thirty relentless tornado alerts on three cells phones in one home, in forty-eight hours, during a hurricane, can make you feel like you’re under a constant air raid attack. Two days of non-stop blaring alerts took me to an unnerving psychological state. Impending doom. Petrified. Vulnerable. Danger. Helpless. Uncertainty. Overwhelmed. Prayers. Survival?  

My son’s neighbor, meteorologist Chad, had a man cave full of computer programs to track severe weather. He created a community text thread during Hurricane Harvey. After each National Weather System Wireless Emergency Alert, sleep deprived Chad followed-up on our group text with the tornado’s location, projected path, timing, and an action statement. Chad’s statements were comforting. Details I needed. “Stay alert, but this tornado is headed to the west side of town.” Each message eventually followed with, “All clear!” He responded to five of the thirty tornado alerts, “Take cover now!” We scrambled to the big closet. There were pillows and blankets for the kids and a kitchen chair for me. I had no idea how long we’d be stuck. We’d no sooner begin breathing after the “All clear,” when another alert would blast. Constant, forty-eight hours. Chad’s texts became my source of hope. I hadn’t met him, but adored him so.  

For two nights I slept with my shoes on, holding my phone, ready. I slept on a futon mattress on the living room floor, with my six-year-old granddaughter. “Are we going to die?” A game of pretend camping, giggling, and playing with flashlights under the covers eased her fear.

My two-year-old grandson was not easy to resettle at 3 AM.  He had been whisked out of his crib, and taken downstairs to the safety closet. Chad’s “All clear” message became the toddler’s opportunity to run free with his bag of Cheetos. His tiny hands were now orange and sticky. Giggling, running, jumping on his big sister and me. Her limited tolerance, “Don’t hurt my Grammy and me!” His mom and dad were at their sleep-deprived wits-end with his three AM shenanigans. They scooped him up, and headed upstairs. I heard mumbling and joking, “The next warning that comes through, he gets to stay in his crib!” Comic relief.

The sun came out. Tornado alerts ceased. Drained, our nerves now trained to be on edge. We were fragile. It would take time to come down from this historic catastrophe.

Bush Intercontinental Airport and roads leading to it remained closed. My flight home was delayed four days, but my Grammy-heart was full. I had opportunity to spend more time with my grandchildren while my son and daughter-in-law volunteered to help less fortunate; so many lost their belongings, homes, lives.   

The airport was just waking up, Saturday, 6:30 AM. The young gentleman two seats away asked, “How did it affect you?” Reality startled me. Every person in this enormous airport had been affected. There was more than my fear, and thirty tornado alerts. I explained that the tornado warnings messed with my head, my son’s home was not damaged, but others nearby lost everything. Thankful, blessed, I was among the lucky ones getting to leave. “You?”  

We had Harvey in common, his story different. This thirty something stranger poured out his heart; I listened, I understood. I was the first he spoke to, aside from fellow rescuers. He volunteered five days as an American Red Cross diver. He showed me his credentials to dive more than one hundred twenty feet, proving what he’d been through was real. The deeper you go, the shorter the time spent. Flooded Houston dives were eight to ten feet, more time under. His hand-drawn map showed water current directions of the floods. He had been on a dive near my son’s home. He looked exhausted, his tears heart-wrenching. My eyes swelled of sadness and tears with him. 

For five days he swam with rodents, snakes, in mud, slime, raw sewage, unable to see beyond his hand. He swam into flooded homes, located medications, had to tell people their pets he searched for died, and he and his rescue team located deceased bodies. At the end of his days, he was so full of filth that he showered several times. First with all his scuba gear on, then without.  

His day job, VP at a major North American bank. He shared a picture of himself in a company advertisement. He was trying to reconnect, escape horror. He, too, was fragile from stress of disaster. Concerned, I asked if he was going home to someone. His girlfriend would be there, but might not understand like someone who had lived through the storm and devastation. He stood and tried to walk off his overwhelming emotions.

“Boarding United Flight 1666 from Houston to Newark will now begin for on-time departure.”

A year later, still a bond. I wish we had shared names. At home in New York, when news of devastation is reported on television, I get tears and goose bumps, still. I look in a different direction, lower the volume, change the channel. More than just a storm happened. It happened to hundreds of thousands, with an equal number of perspectives, majority of stories worse than mine. My thirty tornado alerts weren’t that bad, after all.    

Copyright @ 2017 Suzann Peterson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this text or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address the publisher. All rights reserved.

A Heavy Bag to Carry

(Flash fiction)

by Suzie Peterson

She sent me a text. “On the way home from our honeymoon. Let’s get together soon.”  She didn’t miss a beat, as if nothing had happened. A lot had happened. But, that’s been the cycle.

Why has she been so angry? I was never enough. Her hate deep. For years she has publicly berated and humiliated me, hurtful insinuations on social media, and even kept my name off the newspaper announcement.

I reached out, again. I found her name on a wedding registry and sent the most expensive gift, with love and congratulations. We met several times for lunch. A glimmer of hope. Six weeks before her wedding, when we met at the diner, my heart sank, again. “Nothing’s going to change, the wedding programs have been printed,” her parting words.

Dinner plans made. Looking forward. She cancelled. “Not going through with the plans; you’ll disappoint me!” was her text. I was disappointed, again. The story ends the same, every time. She builds me up to knock me down.

She seems to want to make a connection, but then pulls away fast, without missing a beat. She manipulates the situation and places herself in the role of disappointed victim. She works hard at making sure she has followers. Somehow she is able to always make me look like a horrible dad, in her eyes.  

No invitation arrived. I sent them chocolates, a bottle of champagne and “Mr. and Mrs.” champagne glasses the week before their wedding. On her wedding day I sobbed at home, grieving the loss of what should have been. Still not understanding her level of anger and hatred.  

All of the other people she decided to call mom, dad, sister, brother, and who she has designated as her “parents-in-heart,” or her “rock to lean on,” have been safe places for labels of the family she had desperately wanted.  A need to replace me in honor of her mom.   

Her mom and I had been going through a bump. Her mom had complained about me to her, our friends, and family. She even had an affair. I didn’t know what to do. I was happy being married. This was just a marriage speed bump, I thought. We’d figure out the new jobs we needed, and our finances. But, her mom wasn’t sure. I didn’t know whether we were working out our problems or separating. Fate decided. Her mom died that night that she and I were hit head-on by that drunk driver. I lost the chance to right our marriage.

Nearly a nervous breakdown. I did my best for our daughter, and myself. I spoke kindly about her mom. My daughter and I had a hard time. Counseling. Buying things. Vacations. Even after her mom died, it seemed to be them vs. me. Her mom had modeled how to be disappointed and complain about me. I didn’t have a chance. Berating me had been one of their strong connections. Now a strong lasting connection.

“The wrong parent died!” she yelled.

For nearly twenty-five years, she has kept that connection alive. She hasn’t moved beyond her mom’s ‘unhappy wife’ perception. She treats me the way she remembers her mom treating me.

There is only so much disrespect, berating and verbal abuse a dad should be expected to take, from an adult daughter. I took the tough love route. Stop the manipulations, lies, stories and drama, and make better decisions about money and relationships.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but the only thing my tough love did was give her more fuel to keep her loyalty to her mom alive, stronger than ever. She pushed me further away. To give me respect would be going against her loyalty to her mom’s perspective.    

Leaving me out of her wedding was the most heart-wrenching thing she could have done. Lost chances, lost hope, shattered heart.

I finally understand. Had she invited me to the wedding, then her life of high drama, manipulations, and made-up stories about me would have fallen apart, both in public and in her heart.

The unveiling, in front of her world, would have meant that many years of placing herself in the role of victim, and all of her imagined and self-created disappointments, were for naught.

By not having me attend the wedding, her lies and stories were able to continue; she comfortably remained the victim. Her mom and their strong connection were with her at the wedding.

I’ll probably never have my daughter back. I now understand that by me taking these hits from her, she got to keep her mom alive in her heart – in the only way she knows how.

Copyright © 2018 Suzann Peterson. All rights reserved.

Ball Lightning

An Unexpected Science Lesson at Grandma and Grandpa’s

by Suzie Peterson

When we were young, my siblings and I had many sleepovers at our grandparent’s homes. One of our sets of grandparents lived in a big, old, stone house, with lots of windows. It was situated at the foot of a big mountain. Although I adored time with my grandparents, odd things that made me feel uncomfortable often happened at that house. 

The house was surrounded by a small yard that seamlessly blended into the deep woods. There was a path that traveled through the woods and up the mountain. We’d only hike and explore so far that path before we’d get nervous and run back to the house. 

Behind the house was a small foot bridge that crossed over a stream. On the other side of the stream was a tree swing. We loved to pump that swing as high and as fast as we could, ponytails whipping in the wind. For a second or two we got to hang over the water. 

About thirty feet from the swing, the stream was fed by water that trickled over a little dam at the edge of a pond. We had lots of fun in Grandpa’s rowboat on that pond. His dog even loved to hop in and float with us. We didn’t swim much in the pond because there were too many snakes in the area. We had to take turns riding in the rowboat. We didn’t want to take a chance of overloading it and tipping over, for fear of having to swim with the reptiles to get back to shore! 

On one particular overnight visit, my sister and I slept upstairs in aunt Sandy’s old bedroom. Her room had a pretty, mirrored vanity. Next to the vanity were flowy curtains which framed the French doors that led to a small, wrought-iron balcony. It overlooked the woods and the road, two stories below. 

A powerful thunderstorm slammed through the area that night. During the storm, a glowing ball of orange lightning, the size of a basketball, traveled in through the double dining room windows. It zipped past grandma, who was sitting at the dining room table, missing her head by a literal hair. It traveled up the switchback staircase, and turned one final corner into the bedroom where we were sleeping. We startled awake. The hair on the back of my neck and arms stood straight up. The ball exploded over our heads.The light was blinding.The crack was deafening. Then it disappeared! Just like that! Gone!

We were petrified. Our bodies shook from our head to our toes, and we screamed bloody murder. Our aunts and grandma ran up to check that we were okay. We were fine. No damage, no fire, no extra heat, none of the things that one might imagine. 

Was it a nightmare, or did this thing we’d never heard of really happen? It did happen. Everyone in the family talked about it for days, especially grandma and our aunts who had seen it. It was so bizarre that even though it did happen, I still wondered whether we were crazy? 

Years later, when I researched ball lightning, I was comforted to find similar stories and information that supported what we had experienced. We weren’t crazy after all!

 As of this writing, scientists continue to have a variety of speculations on the physics of ball lightning which has been considered a mysterious phenomenon for hundreds of years. Over the past several decades, as technology has improved and more people, including scientists, have been able to record ball lightning, it is becoming less of a mystery. Scientists are putting more effort into all the questions that surround it – where, when, why, and how does it occur?

There are a few general observations that scientists agree on, so far. Ball lightning usually moves parallel to the earth, and sometimes takes vertical jumps. The one we experienced did both. It traveled parallel to the earth until it reached the stairs, and then vertically floated and bobbed up the stairwell and around the corner. 

Ball lightning sometimes comes down from the clouds, and other times for reasons unknown,  it can suddenly materialize either indoors or outdoors. It can enter a room through a closed or open window, through nonmetallic thin walls, or even through a chimney. The one we experienced entered the house through the windows. I don’t remember whether the windows were closed, or whether the ball caused a burn mark as it entered. 

Scientists have determined that ball lightning is harmless when it is inside structures that have conducting frames, such as houses, submarines and airplanes. We were startled and scared, but we weren’t hurt inside the big old stone house that had lightning rods. 

Regardless of whether ball lightning is harmless or not, I don’t want to experience being near it again.That night left the strongest impression I have from my visits to that grandma and grandpa’s home. It sure was one heck of a science lesson!

Copyright©2019Suzann Peterson.All Rights Reserved

GREAT BALLS OF FIRE!: A 1901 engraving depicting ball lightning

Photo source: National Geographic

Reflections and Memoir of Growing Up On A Hobby Farm

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Reflections and Memoir of Growing Up on a Hobby Farm

By Suzie Peterson 

I didn’t know it at the time, but when I was growing up on a hobby farm, I was getting quite the well-rounded education about life, surviving, and ultimately what it means to be a wholesome, good person. 

There’s a thread of farming in my family history, which led to me growing up on a hobby farm in a rural town seventy-five miles north of New York City.  My dad was raised on a farm where he was expected to help out with all the chores. During his childhood and teenage years, he raised steers with the local 4-H club for show and competition at the local county fair. As a young adult, one of his first jobs was that of Clove Creek Farm Manager for FDR Jr., on the Roosevelt property in Poughquag, New York.   We lived on that property until I was 5 years old.  My dad decided that he wanted to start his own business, so we moved to a big ol’ farmhouse on the other end of town, which was owned by my dad’s new business partner.    

Prior to our family moving on to the property, and eventually purchasing it, it had been a large working dairy farm. When we moved in, the fields surrounding the farm house were rented out to local farmers to grow corn for their livestock, and as a place for their animals to graze during the summer.  It was always an exciting day in mid-spring when the Black Angus farmer dropped off his trailer load of 20 –30 cattle.  It was so peaceful during the summer to watch them lumber about the fields, huddle together at the tree line, chew their cud, and swish their tails.                       

It took time for dad and his partner to grow their construction company business, which meant that money was not easy for our family at that time. This is when the hobby farm was integrated into our already hard working and busy lives of work and school.  My parents knew that a way to save money, and stay healthy, was to grow a big garden for harvesting, freezing, and canning produce, and to raise our own meat. My dad’s farming experiences kicked in. They rototilled a huge garden. The family planted, watered, weeded and picked from the garden all spring and summer. Dad built a root cellar into the side of one of the hills where the potatoes, carrots and the other root vegetables were stored during the winter. We canned tomatoes, froze beans, peas, and corn, made pickles, and we had fresh tomatoes, lettuce and cucumbers all during the growing season.   

The pigs we raised would eat just about anything, but they especially liked it when we brought them the leftover produce from the local grocery store. They were really happy, snorting, critters when they saw our station wagon back up to their pigpen. They knew there were bins of vegetables in their immediate future.  After devouring all that they could, they would retreat to their happy place – in the mud, in the middle of the stream that ran through their pigpen.  We raised and slaughtered our own chickens, which is where I learned that there really is such a thing as “running around like a chicken with its head cut off.” We also raised our own Polled Hereford steers for 4-H, for competition in local fairs, and ultimately the freezer. My sister, brother and I were expected to help take care of the family hobby farm – the garden, the property, and especially our steers.    

The real solid work ethic it takes for ten, eleven and twelve year-olds to raise a steer is unlike any other. Those 1,250 pound animals counted on us for their survival. There was no such thing as staying inside because of bad weather, or taking time off to enjoy the good weather.  Although the animals did not require us to be with them full-time every day, our days did have to revolve around the times that the animals needed to be cared for, fed, and watered.  

Before school every day, around 5:00 a.m., flashlight in hand, we headed out back to the barn to feed the animals.  It was a daily challenge to keep their food safe from any number of varmints who enjoy freeloading in barns. The bales of hay and feed bags of oats and corn mixture that we carried for our animals were real darn heavy. We had to carry multiple five-gallon pails of water from the stream to the steer’s water bin, several times a day; no such thing as running water in that barn back then! These animals each had their own personality; they knew who they each belonged to, they knew our voices, and what we expected from them. They enjoyed when we washed, brushed and talked to them. Their ears perked up and wriggled happily.  Daily stall cleaning was different depending upon the season. Mucking a stall in subfreezing temps brought mixed feelings – you were frozen while you’re doing the work, but the manure was solid, easier to handle, and the smell was not as potent as in the summer.   The smell increased during the 70- 90 degree weather, so the faster you worked, the quicker the smelly job was done. We eventually became immune to the smell. It was always a good feeling to leave a clean stall for our steers, knowing that they would have a fresh bed of hay to rest on, until the cycle of cleaning up after them started again. They especially enjoyed eating fresh green hay. Anything fresh and green was like their “candy.” Their ears would perk up, they would get happy-frisky, their tails would wave, and they would chew and chew. 

 Humor is inevitable on a hobby farm. All you have to do is sit and watch the antics of any of the animals and their interactions with their people to put a smile on your face.  

 One morning, our big, drooling St. Bernard, Molly, hopped into the pig pen.  She was bound and determined to let the pigs know who was boss. She stood and barked non-stop at Arnold and Mildred.  Mom, in her robe and curlers in her hair, heard the commotion. She ran up to the pig pen with a broom in her hand, hopped in, and was doing what she could to swish and corral Molly and the pigs apart from each other. She was blindsided by one of the pigs when he ran between her legs. She went head over teakettle into the mud. Thank God she didn’t get hurt.  It was unnerving for her then, but the thought of seeing her be flipped flat by a pig, in her curlers and robe, is now a funny story that is retold and laughed about at many family events. 

 And then there were Homer and Jethro. They were our two chubby white pet ducks who waddled their way up to the kitchen window at our dinner time on most evenings.  They would have quite the stare-down and quacking conversation with dad until he gave them some chunks of bread through the window. They always made a disgusting mess near that part of the sidewalk, so we seldom walked barefoot in that area of the yard.    

Every once in a while a steer or two would escape from the pen.  The cause might have been as simple as someone forgetting to lock the gate, or as annoying as the steers having pushed through part of the fence.  It took persistence, patience, coaxing, and manipulating skills to find the runaway steers, figure out how to get them calmed down, corral them back to their pen, and repair the route of escape. Not easy, and not fast. The scene of escapee steers, if they’re not yours to catch, can be quite entertaining. They get so excited that their tails stand straight up. On Polled Herefords that means the little white tip at the end of their tail is playfully waving high up in the air; they kick their hind legs up in a rascally kind of way, and then they gallop. Straight for the nearest cornfield – their candy store.  

 When you raise a steer in 4-H, you have to train him so that he cooperates for you for when you exercise him and when you bring him to shows. The training begins with a lesson on how to make your own harness or halter to put on the steer. That’s followed by a lesson about the persistence it takes to try to get an active, nervous, young animal of about 300–400 pounds, calmed down enough to trust you to lead him.  It takes a while, maybe a week or so, but with persistence, physical strength, and consistency, a steer can be trained to let you lead him down the road, into the hollow, for a nice long walk. These walks became their daily exercise to tone their muscles and fat to get them market ready for when it’s time to take them to the show, and eventual auction. The road I walked my steer on also happened to be the road where one of the best looking guys in the high school lived. So I took extra care to be sure my hair was done just so, and that I had on very neat clean clothes when I walked my steers…just in case he or his family (city folks) would pass by. And when they did, they’d stop and chat for a few minutes, intrigued by the sight of seeing a 1,250 pound Polled Hereford being taken for a walk down the road by a teenage girl. That just made my day when I got to talk with them. Thanks, steers!    

On the business side of our hobby farm, we had to keep track of the original cost of the calves, the cost of their food, shop for the highest quality and best priced feed, track the proportions of their different types of food depending on where they were at in their growth cycle, track how much they ate, and their weight gains. We had  know when they needed a veterinarian to visit, and we had to know how to speak with the veterinarian, We had to know what the going market prices were at auctions for our types of animals, and then we had to decide what cost per pound would be an acceptable bid when we sold them at the auction.  We had to understand the amount of the animal that would be considered waste and how much actual meat it would yield. We compared our data and traded tips with other local hobby farmers.  One year, the University of Connecticut purchased my steer to bring back to their farming students as an example of a really well grown animal!  

There were even lessons about charity on a hobby farm – my dad’s company would often purchase either a steer, a pig, or lamb at the county fair livestock auction and donate it to the local children’s home for their freezer.   

When you’re a kid raising a steer on the family hobby farm, if you want time off to go to your friend’s house to play, or for a sleepover, you have to drive some kind of a worthwhile bargain with your sibling to take care of your steer while you’re away. That bargain, among other promises, always included a demand that the favor be returned. 

Dealing with all of the weather elements in the northeast was not up for negotiation on the hobby farm. In the winter, we often trudged through many inches, or feet, of fresh fallen, unplowed snow to get to the barn. Our hands would freeze even when we had on our sturdy work gloves, and our cheeks would be real rosy. We used a pick to break through the layer of ice on the stream in order to gather pails of water for the animals. We learned early on in life that the fresh cold air is healthy, that you don’t melt in the rain, and that fresh fallen raindrops feel good dripping on your face. In the hot weather, we could often be found in the barn, near our steers, in front of the fan which would not only cool both of us down, but also keep the flies away from them. As kids, each time we stepped into the barn, regardless of the weather, we were unconsciously reminded of its complete peacefulness. The animals were generally calm, quiet, and happy to see us. It was in the barn that we would forget about any uncomfortable weather and hard work. The harmonious feeling took over, and got us through it all.    

When you’re a kid growing up on a hobby farm, there is very little room to tolerate such things as disrespect, drama, laziness, procrastination, carelessness, or impatience. You learn from your mistakes immediately, and move on. The seasons and the life cycles of the plants and animals are what you work with, and plan for. You learn responsibility, accountability, integrity, and honesty. The family has to work closely together. 

 Of course, like any family, some spats do occur…because we’re all different. You learn to get over the spats quickly, regardless of whether you are the winner, loser, or you compromise. You learn to just move on. It’s not all about  “you.” The animals, plants and your family are counting on you. Being kind to all of them, thinking through situations on their behalf, comparing and contrasting different instances, understanding causes, effects and results, learning to be flexible, to work independently, with a partner, or as a group are all part of the normal day for a family on a hobby farm. By nature, for it to all work, it has to be that way. You naturally learn that communication skills, spoken, unspoken, or written are invaluable for both your family and the animals. You learn to understand the value of wide open spaces, to appreciate and ‘read’ the sky, the wind, and the trees. You truly appreciate the fresh, homegrown taste of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  Hobby farmers work hard and smart. They work beyond the point of being tired because they work until the job is done.  It isn’t easy, but the best rewards and appreciation come from the things we have to work hard at in order to succeed. 

 Finally, when the job is done, kids on a hobby farm know when to hop on the sled and slip down a snow-covered hill. They know when the time is right to take a bike ride down the tree covered road, or play in the creek, to swing or rest under a big ol’ maple shade tree, or to just lay in the field of deep green grass and daydream under the fluffy white clouds and crisp blue sky.

Copyright @ 2020 Suzann Peterson. All rights reserved.