The sounds of an old fashioned Texas thunderstorm woke me one morning. Drowsily, I crept out of bed and cracked open my bedroom balcony door, so I could better see, hear and smell nature’s extravaganza. Then I slid back under my comfortable, warm covers to enjoy the show. The tiny Christmas lights I had hung on my balcony twinkled through the opening, casting a marvelous Technicolor spectrum on my ceiling. As I stared out into the early morning darkness, peacefully reveling in the beautiful multi-sensory experience, suddenly I was jolted into reminiscences of another storm, long ago and far away.
There was nothing beautiful about that storm. It was a frightening test of endurance for me, on an otherwise delightful camping trip with my fiancé. Before that Thanksgiving trip through Arkansas, I was pretty much a virgin when it came to outdoor activities, especially camping. On the other hand, I was anything but virginal when it came to my favorite indoor sport of dancing, being known for tripping the light fantastic at nightclubs around town. As I hovered between dreamland and consciousness in the rainy morning dampness, memories of both twirled around, like well choreographed lovers on the dance floor of my mind.
We were hunting for a place to camp near Ft. Smith, when looming, ominous thunderclouds overtook us late in the afternoon. Abruptly, the worst storm I had ever seen struck with a pillaging, gnashing fury. Ping pong ball hail and sheets of rain were so intense we could not see the cars in front of us. Earth quaking thunder roared and lightning swords slashed open the countryside. The car radio reported roads closed due to widespread flooding. There was no let up in sight. I begged him to pull over, to seek shelter, at which point my Prince Charming rabidly morphed into the Prince of Darkness.
He yelled and cursed at me, insisting that pulling over would be more dangerous. Frightened out of my mind, I cried and begged some more. I could see other cars pulling over along both sides of the highway. But no, inexplicably, he seemed compelled to drive on through that Hell. Finally, furiously, he pulled over under the protection of an overpass. At that point I was not sure if I was more afraid of the storm outside or him, because he was boiling over with hatred, seemingly directed at me.
In the few minutes of respite under that pass, I pled my case for finding a motel for the night. Surely he could not expect to find a place to camp in weather like that, I reasoned. But camping was all he could think about. When he finally did relent, it was with bitter malice spit at me through his clenched teeth. We managed to find a cheap, no-tell-motel just off the highway. He sulked and complained all evening at the motel. He tried his best to make me feel guilty for expecting such an extravagance, insinuating I was less than the ideal companion because I could not tough it out. He completely forgot that I had already successfully and cheerfully camped out several nights on this winter escapade in the rain, wind and cold. Even when we were the only people around who were stupid enough to do so. Even when we had to put up tarps to block the biting wind so that we could light the Coleman stove to cook a meal. Even when I could barely stand because I had horrible menstrual cramps. Yes, I remember that storm.
Later, on the home stretch of that fateful camping trip, my trickster companion shape-shifted back into Prince Charming. That was how our relationship went. One day was horror and the next day was bliss. Heck, sometimes one hour was horror, the next was bliss. It was a constant, vacillating dichotomy of emotions, a roller coaster ride. Yet, when I reflect back and try to remember why I loved him and how much I loved him, and wonder, “Did he ever really love me?” I cannot help but recall another night on that same trip, one of the most romantic evenings we ever spent and how much love we did share, once upon a time.
On that evening, we found ourselves dancing the night away, in spite of the fact that I was not in a dancing mood and probably never felt or looked uglier in my life. Sometimes there is no defining love. It just is. Where it is, when it is, with whom it is. If only we can hold onto, remember those moments.
We had survived Hell Night in the Arkansas storm and were headed south, thankful to be homeward bound. When it was time to stop for the day, we located a place to set up our tent at a Corps of Engineers lakeside park, closed for the season. There was no one else around to object. We finished our spaghetti dinner behind the flapping blue tarp, secured to nearby tree trunks, somewhat protected from the howling winter winds and rain - again. Though it was already pitch dark, it was still early evening, and somehow several hours of playing tiddlywinks in the tent did not sound very appealing. So we opted to venture into town, such as it was, in hopes of finding another way to pass th
e shank of the evening. There is not much to do in Durant, Oklahoma, but there was a small neighborhood tavern whose winking neon sign beckoned us.
By that time, I was not feeling very well or very pretty, thanks to another bout of menstrual cramps, being bone-tired, stone-cold and road-weary. But for the sake of peace, I was still trying to be a good sport. My hair had not been washed in days. It was plastered to my head, pulled back in a pitiful excuse for a ponytail. My face was also unwashed and had not seen makeup in over twenty-four hours. I was wearing all the clothes I could pile on, plus my clunky, lace-up hiking boots. For a Southern gal who never even goes to the grocery store without her full makeup regalia, this was a definite departure for me. The only way I was able to pull off walking inside that place, was by thinking to myself that those people would never see me again.
Like most establishments of its sort, this one was dingy and smoke-filled. There were only a few folks inside, mostly seated at the bar. Feeling like the wayfarers we were, we sought refuge at a rickety table off to the side in no man’s land, where a tired waitress appeared to take our order. Before we finished our first drinks, we were joined by the establishment’s owner and his faithful dog, Larry, a large, crippled and shaggy, Golden Retriever whose coat had grayed to a mottled blond. His owner, Dwight, was similarly crippled and wheezed from emphysema while he confessed to us he was slowly dying of cancer as well. Nevertheless, daring Death to come get him, Dwight defiantly puffed on his cigarettes the entire evening. Both owner and dog seemed genuinely delighted to have some new folks to hear their stories. Larry instantly fell in love with me and possessively lay himself down on top of my feet under the table. A little bourbon and Coke helped warm me so I could quit worrying about my limp hairdo and lack of makeup. The evening wore on as we all chatted amiably.
Somebody put a quarter in the corner jukebox and a familiar country western tune started to play. Lover Boy looked over at me with a characteristically mischievous twinkle in his eye and asked if I wanted to dance. Reluctant, because I was not wearing my usual high-heeled dancing shoes, I nevertheless demurely acquiesced like Scarlett to Rhett at the Confederate Ball. Of course we were the only ones dancing on that bare concrete floor. But while we were out there, he cajoled me by telling me how sexy he thought I was in those damned hiking boots. And how he loved my chocolate eyes. Shamelessly, I swooned in his big, warm, safe arms as we swayed a simple two-step. And when I looked up into his azure blue eyes that night, I believed everything was possible. I saw nothing but love coming back at me. And we danced. Oh, how we danced.
