Storm Warning

James Higgins

July 21, 2024

I saw the inside of Aunt Lula Jane’s

storm cellar only once, that time

the huge black clouds blew in 

from the north, scared the locals,

terrified this city boy. People went gingerly

down their cellar stairs though, dirt walled

shelters with tin roofs, air vents

sticking up to catch the incessant

hot wind. Scorpions, even rattlers, sought

the coolness of earthen walls in the heat.

Shelves lined with canned fruits, jams,

vegetables all put up by Aunt Lu, inspired 

by Dustbowl and Depression memories.

Old chairs, a bench, table, bucket

of well water with a dipper in it,

a place to sit ‘til the storm blows over,

hoping to never hear sounds 

of your house splintering 

in freight train winds.

We sat there, my dad, aunt, uncle, 

me maybe a a half hour

before Uncle Luther edged

the heavy slanted door open 

saw clouds, not so dark now,

passing us by, headed southwest

toward Sweetwater, Shep, maybe

Buffalo Gap or Muleshoe

making other people in little Texas towns 

watch the sky in fear, seek shelter

in a backyard hole in the ground.

Born in Abilene, James Higgins spent the first fifteen years of his life in Texas, living in San Antonio during the school year, then spending most summers with his dad in the little town of Merkel, where both his parents were born. Two different worlds, city life vs. small town.