Summer Storms
a poem about memories blowing in
If you’ve been around for more than a minute, you know I write a good bit about my great-grandparents and their cottage up north on Lake Huron. Today, I introduce you to another one of my grandparents. Growing up I had seven; two grandpas, two grandmas, and three greats.
My other great-grandma lived up north year-round, which was confusing to a young mind that understood up north as only open in the summer, unless you were a hunter or ice fisher. She was neither. Her home was less a cottage and more a house. It even had a second floor and a working fireplace. And a pinball machine! Her lake was small and had a little island in the middle.
Every summer when I went to church camp, I’d write letters to all my grandparents before I got there and mail them on the first day. They were full of wild tales of all my future activities.
I didn’t know her real first name until I was a ten. Only discovering it when I asked for help addressing her camp letter envelope. I remember feeling equally sad and mad that it took so long to learn her name and that it happened by accident.
Our relationship was different than ones with my other grandparents. There was something particularly mysterious and especially endearing about her. The older I get, the more I wish we could have five more minutes together. If only I could tell her about my trip to North Dakota. How I found the farm where she was born and touched the river where she played as a child.
The last time I saw her was the summer of my high school graduation. She died a few summers later. There was no funeral. I’m not even sure her cause of death. This summer, I feel like I am finally able to say goodbye.
Here’s a new poem, inspired by her.
Listen and read below.
Summer Storms
©Rebecca Wilson, July 2025
it’s hard to explain
but summer storms hit different
wind and rain
lightning and thunder
there and then gone again
before you know it
grandma’s lake was little
with a little island in it
the water wasn’t good for swimming
perfect though for rowing and canoeing
watching fireworks on the 4th of July
eating watermelon on the weedy shore
it’s where I learned to cast my line
for the very first time
with the plastic Mikey Mouse fishing pole
she bought me at the dime store
along with a big bag of jawbreakers
using hotdogs and marshmallows
leftover from last night’s campfire as bait
as you might imagine
those fish weren’t biting
we rowed a little closer to the little island
legend had it
that it got littler every year
where does it go, I asked with sadness
it’s sinking, they said so certainly
when a storm blew in one afternoon
we docked there to ride it out
probably not the best spot
but better than in the boat
grandma’s place looked different
looking in from the middle of the lake
she was such a mystery
I didn’t even know her real first name until I was ten
of all the secrets my family was keeping
that’s the first one that truly left me weeping
I apologized when I found out
she couldn’t understand what I was so sorry about
that’s when I realized all the questions
the answers I’ll spend forever seeking
the storm this afternoon
reminds me of her
how did I forget
that year she came downstate for my birthday
to take me shopping
told me I could get anything I wanted
didn’t bat an eyelash
when I picked a turquoise jogging suit
from the boys’ department
sharing a Neapolitan milkshake sitting on twisty red stools
at the restaurant in the middle of Kmart
she dropped me off and headed back home
I always wondered
did she sing in the cab of her truck
what the lake was like in fall and winter
was she really okay all alone up there
those trips up north each summer
where we’d spend a few days together
Norwegian swear word needle prints
hanging in her kitchen
fruit flies on the counter
photo albums by the bird cages
I’d always flip though
focused on those faces
stories behind them
did I look like them
confused by the pinball machine
outside the bathroom
that worked without quarters
by the time I was nine
taller than her shoulders
where she got a butterfly tattoo
summer the season
of metamorphosis or effect
storms that blow her in
no sirens or warnings
just an unsettling calming
like the little island
those memories are sinking
generational curiosity lingering
last time I drove by
it’s almost gone
Poetic Prompts
Choose any or all or none to write or reflect about.
Share in the comments if that feels right. I’ll do my absolute best to reply to everyone.
Do you have or did you have grandparents present in your life?
What summer memories do you have of them?
Can you recall a birthday present they gifted you?
If you had five more minutes together what would you say? Or do?
Water-fully yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels
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