Tornadoes, Mayonnaise, and Milk, Oh My!

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Everyone, at some point or another in their lifetime, has very specific fears; children are often afraid of the dark and, though I’ve always been a fan, clowns; many adults are petrified of heights; and the elderly have, I presume, a constant fear of death looming over their heads. I, for instance, was absolutely terrified of tornadoes for years as a child. Thunderstorms made me uneasy, but only because I knew the potential for tornadoes existed somewhere inside those dark, sinister clouds. Unlike many, however, I can trace my fear of twisters back to two very specific events.

My younger brother at the time was young enough to still sleep in a crib, so that must have made the wee Reverend just about 4 years old and the eldest brother about 8, which apparently is the age at which children are their most sadistic. With the pops away at work, our fair mother decided that we could simply “watch over ourselves” for a brief time whilst she went down the street for what we were told was a fantastically important and difficult to reschedule hair appointment. No sooner had she closed the garage door and puttered away did storm clouds gather on the horizon, quickly advancing in our general direction; about fifteen minutes later, the tornado sirens, which were (and still are) located approximately one tenth of a mile from my parents’ house, erupted, warning the citizenry of impending danger. To my brother, this sound simply represented a golden opportunity of sibling torture, one simply too perfect to pass up.

On several occasions, our parents had explained to us that, in the event of weather emergencies, we were to empty out the wet bar, that being the central-most area of the home, and climb inside to wait out the emergency; thus, my brother assuming command of the house, ordered me to empty the wet bar of its several cases of wine and two of those tins containing cheese, butter, and caramel popcorn, all neatly separated by a cardboard divide. Our safe room adequately empty, I climbed inside, while the dutiful older brother decided to go check on the younger sibling, still sleeping soundly in his crib upstairs. What Ben kept hidden from me, however, is that during this goodwill trip he learned from the television that the tornado threat was nonexistent for our area and only a minor nuisance for those that would be hit.

The next few moments of my life remain a blur; I can recall hearing my brother speeding down the stairs, shouting at the top of his 8 year old lungs that, “It’s right down the street! It’s coming right for our house! Oh God I can see it coming!” I, taking the bait hook, line, and sinker, spent the next few moments frantically running around the house while emptying my body of all liquids via my tear ducts and repeating the phrase, “I’m too young to die! I’m too young to die! I’m too young to diiiiiiiiiiiie!!!!” I imagine, since I can’t specifically recall, that Ben was nearing death himself from laughing; this I will have to verify upon our next conversation.

My second source of my tornado fear occurred at a Boy Scout summer camp; out in the wilderness, it’s difficult to receive weather warnings in a timely manner. Thus, the entire camp was caught unaware by a massive storm; approximately a hundred and fifty scouts were herded under an open gazebo, and we simply had to wait it out unprotected while the few adults present whispered their fears of a possible tornado strike among themselves. Thank God my older brother wasn’t around that time…

On a lighter note, years later I almost burned this entire summer camp to the ground after unwittingly throwing burning embers into the dry forest. Thankfully the flames were quelled by an honest-to-God Boy Scout Bucket Brigade; every scout with two arms grabbed buckets and coolers and raced back and forth between the flames and the only available water pump – we even resorted to dumping all our milk and orange juice on the fire before it was eventually brought under control. But, no lasting harm was done; trees do grow back eventually, I’m told.

As an adult, I’ve outgrown my childhood fears, tornadoes included, yet I still retain a few seemingly strange idiosyncrasies: I absolutely detest mayonnaise in any form, and I cannot lay eyes on milk, save for its use in coffee, without feeling queasy and nauseous. While from my friends’ and family’s perspective these seem completely and wholly unfounded, I can specifically trace the inception of my unease with both mayo and milk.

When we three brothers were but boys, our family had a ritual of packing up a large picnic basket full of sandwiches, potato chips, cookies, and juice, and heading down to the Germantown Depot, an abandoned train station turned historical landmark, where the city would put on a free concert every Saturday during the summers (summers in the Memphis area are dominated by sweltering, hundred degree days with humidity rarely, if ever, falling below ninety percent). Without fail, my mother would lovingly prepare the same sandwiches for every member of the family: wheat bread, turkey breast, one slice of cheese, and a generous portion of mayonnaise, which, after simmering inside a picnic basket for half an hour, obtained a smell, taste, and texture the likes of which I’ve never forgotten. When jogging in the afternoons, if I happen to pass a garbage can out for collection, that sour smell of decaying organics often reminds me of the smell of that warm mayonnaise from our picnics years ago.

As for milk, I had quite a damaging experience in elementary school that precludes me from enjoying what others assure me is quite a delicious dairy drink: Sitting down to lunch one afternoon in the school cafeteria, I opened my carton of milk and lifted it to my lips, only too eager to quench the thirst generated from hours of study. After quaffing all but the last single sip of milk, I felt something alien enter my mouth – slimy, cold, and big. Horrified, I spat it back into the carton, slammed the container onto the table, and ripped the top off of the carton to satisfy my morbid curiosity. At the bottom of my milk carton resided what I have described over the years as a “translucent, gelatinous glob of……slime.” I never found out exactly what the offending matter was (nor do I want to know, honestly), but that was certainly the last time this Reverend ever allowed milk past his lips. Honestly, I even have difficulty watching other people drink milk, but the worst, worst possible situation is to see a glass that previously contained milk sitting out, caked in a thin white film…I just gagged writing that.

Two sidenotes before I end what apparently has become a novella: First, I cannot drink coffee black; I have to lighten it up with milk. This use of milk does not bother me in the least bit, as I cheerily drink creamed coffee every morning without the least bit of hesitation. Secondly, approximately three months ago I attended a party hosted and attended largely by English graduate students; during a lull in my group’s conversation, I overheard a young lass detailing an exact replica of the aforementioned calamity. Never in my life had I found another person who could understand the severity of such a surprise, and here I’d stumbled on to a fellow milk-jellyfish sufferer! I of course walked over, introduced myself, and the two of us spent the evening comparing our tales and celebrating our collective dairy disdain.

Finally my fears of being abnormal were put to rest, once and for all…

Reverend’s Note: Ben, I assure you, will leave comments here proclaiming that I have twisted the facts, distorting reality; when this happens, just remember one thing: He locked me in a closet at least once under the guise of a game of Hide & Seek. Need I say more?

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