Once, I had a favorite place.

Once I had a “favorite place” This was my first real environment that could remotely be considered back woods, or rural. A small town with a population of under ten thousand my father found work and moved us there.

Our home was centered on two acres of land with I mowed every weekend, usually all weekend, as my father was not the type to by a riding lawnmower when I could mow it all in just under 8 hours if I tried. At the end of a long gravel road, with only 3 other neighbors, we had corner lot, corner to a lake that is.

The shore line if you will was more of a steep rocky and treacherous embankment that although passable you took care wandering through. Thick hardwoods and cedars deep brush and snake dens specked the elevation decline of some 50 feet that provided a cover and concealment in the summer and sharp contrast to the glass smooth lake in the winter.
From the back porch, a larger than living room, fully enclosed and screened in extension of the home I would sit and stare off into the underbrush. This porch was my favorite place.

To the west was the lake after the stretch of our property. A huge carpet of rich green evenly mowed turf flanked all around by towering hardwoods protecting the shade and the creatures that lived within it. To the east on the other extreme of our plot of lad, was out only visible neighbor in the form of a low lying log cabin before even denser forest that would be tall and majestic were it not for the 400 foot cooling tower with its never ending belch of hot steam rising up into the air.

Looking ahead the earth fell away to the boundary of the property, where sharp rocks and boulders gave way to soft grass and then dense forest that fell down to the water. The swift moving current of the intake canal drifted fishing bots back and forth in a lazy dance against the thirst of the nuclear power facility that sucked the lake into its belly before spitting back out the other end one hundred degrees year round. Now and again deer would come from the woods, and down to the water where our boat was docked and seldom used. They always had a cautious eye on the house and the man on the porch, perhaps wondering if I had my shotgun or a silent bow.

Clearly out of place in this hot and muggy environment where the bugs sung so loud at night it could keep you awake like the police choppers in los angels or the traffic in Chicago was my Siberian husky, ever faithful and sweet as sugar Katie Kate. Despite the tepid humidity she would lie beside me in the rocking chair and fwap her tail as casually stroked her puppy soft fur to the sound of the woods, less the bugs, insects, spiders, snakes and scorpions the almost invisible screen protected us from. Within the right conditions my brother and I would pull our bed mattresses out onto the porch and sleep deeply through the night. The best of these nights is when the rains would come, these were by far my favorite times.

As the sun went you could smell the rain coming in the air, dancing on the wind infecting your mind without filter from your consciousness. The light fades earlier than it should as the thunder clouds work their way through the jet streams to destinations unknown. Signaling their travel with distant rumbles mimicking the train on the other side of the lake as the breeze becomes a wind pulling moans from around the wood. Without hinder the wind flows through the screened porch chilling the sweat of anticipation on your flesh as you await the storm. You sat both fearful and excited and the ferocity of nature that is soon to be unleashed. The temperature drops and although there is sound everywhere, everything seems to be quite. The slither of snakes in the bushes, bird cawing and bugs mating has gone as they seek shelter from the impending storm. All that is left is the wind in the trees, though the grass and over the rocks to fill your mind.

This wait build tension in your gut as the wind brings you the faint traces of something sharp in your nose. Picking your memory you know the scent, but smell it so rarely, that you forget it exists until you know it again. Once you realize what it is, the storm is here. As if to announce its presence night becomes day for a fraction of a second as the sky splits open and thunder booms into your bones startling you despite your long anticipation. Ozone fills your nose and mind as the rain begins to assault dry earth, pulled down by gravity and thrust upon the landscape by the voice of the wind.

Sitting in the protection of the porch, the storm would rage around me with my rapt attention. With each dagger of lighting came the ominous boom that both humbles and inspires your spirit. Quickly the air become crisp and clean from the cleansing rain as the thunderclaps travel miles away across the lake only to return again as echoes in the wind.

Drawing to it like a moth to a flame, the cooling tower high above the landscape was ringed in lighting rods. As if deliberately, the storm would light the night in a purple blue sliver burning white hot to touch it with a ferocious clap of thunder. Perhaps needing reassurance all is well, or just looking for a little more love. Katie would rest her chin on my thigh soliciting a slow scratch behind her ears for the loving embrace when the storm was at it climax.

Gallons upon gallons of rain poured off the roof and over the sides of the porch adding to the noise of the squall as it beat holes in the grass and battered puddles without mercy. Bursting at the seams, the puddles would burst and make channels and streams rushing to lower ground making its way to the lake witch reflected the light show in the sky with crystal clear perfection. The wind not to be outdone by the mighty rain, assaulted all in its path, snapping branches and felling trees somewhere in the darkness. Urging the rain as it could through the semi-permeable barrier of the screens to reach us because we were dry, or perhaps just because we were there. Though, no matter how furious the wind whipped through the tress, the gallons that fell or the sensory assault from lighting flashing or thunder booming, the storm was never was quite violent enough.

Years later, I did watch a storm roll in that proved to enough for me. This time it was palm trees over hardwoods and the elderly over bugs. For 4 days and nights I watched it come with growing anticipation. It was big enough to name Andrew, and it was a category 5 hurricane. Again, I sat on my back porch overlooking a lake of glass beyond witch a downtown skyline stood between me an this mother of thunder storms, smelling a scent your don’t quite recognize, and remembering another porch long ago once upon a time in Arkansas.