Columbus Day, 1962
by Minnette Meador
Portland, OR
It was Friday, October 12, 1962. My parents worked to support the five of us, so my sister saw me off to school. She had to leave early that morning so just a thin sweater for me; who needed a coat on such a fine, sunny day?
I sat behind giant mullioned windows in the 2nd grade classroom, watching half-naked trees through the glass. Nothing was moving. The sky looked odd; black frozen clouds loomed above the playground, swings hung black and silver against the cyclone fence, steel merry-go-rounds were dusted with leaves. The teacher droned on about some man traveling in three tiny ships who found himself lost on his way to “The New World.”
Something stirred. A rain drop, then 10, then 50 broke the fragile leaves scattered on the ground, pounded the metal rides and tin roof. The drumming so loud, we couldn’t hear the teacher’s voice anymore. She glanced through the panes of glass and frowned. The assembly bell’s ding-ding-ding merged with the hiss of the clamoring rain.
They sent us home.
No yellow bus for me; too close to home. I walked out into the rain, the cold drops chilling my flush cheeks.
The rain started as an adventure. I gathered my legs together, ran the first block (no school!), and splashed into deep puddles, the patent leather shoes repelling the water, looking slick as oil. My clothes were drenched in seconds, the sweater clinging to me like blistered skin. The pouring sky went from pleasant patters to sheets of pain, the hail stinging my little face and hands. I hugged a tree until it passed.
I was scared now.
The wind blew so hard I couldn’t see more than a beach ball’s throw in front of me. The motion of cars whipping through the haze a block away was the only other movement. I was cold, hurt, crying. The wind howled like a pack of hungry dogs and I ran.
I don’t know how I made it home that day. My mother was there when I burst through the door in hysterics, the winds behind me smacking it against the wall. She tamed the door, bundled me up in a warm towel, and nestled my shivering body into a hot bath. Nothing since has ever felt so glorious.
The storm grew into a cyclone. I remember watching two plate glass windows bow under the pressure of the gusts. We clung to one another in front of the fire, the power long gone. My father was with the National Guard, lost somewhere in the city battling the storm; a white knight, his sword drawn, slaying the monster. He was actually hauling sandbags to keep the rising river from destroying downtown.
We spent the night in the basement. The only losses were small windows, mother’s nerves, and my confidence. Everything else escaped unscathed.
I think of it now, many years later and still shiver a little. Pelting rain. Cyclone winds. Columbus Day.
