Rolling Thunder

‘Tis a night of rolling thunder and pounding rain in northern Texas. The kind of thunder that brings back memories of a time when I was 14 or 15 years of age. It was up in Canada, in the foothills southwest of Calgary. A place and time far removed from this thunderous Texas night.

My Dad was always on the lookout for uranium. He bought a Geiger Counter and on Sunday’s we would head up into them thar hills and he would scout around with that thing and with the earphones on his head. Always thought he was going to get rich with some miraculous prospecting discovery.

One Sunday, it started raining up there. And the rolling thunder. Thunder that echoed and re-echoed off the foothills and mountains, one continuous sensation of rumble.

We drove into this meadow where an old, dilapidated, clapboard cabin with a whiff of smoke coming out of the chimney was nestled under a stand of fir trees. A couple of out-buildings were nearby and we could see horses in a corral which had a little lean-too of a shelter for them.

We got out of the car and went up to the cabin and pounded on the door. My father’s intent was to find out if anybody in there knew anything about uranium in the area.

Inside, were three boys, a little older than me.

Uranium was the last thing on their minds.

But my heart, pounding in my throat, with wonderment.

Talk of the romance of cowboys in the wild . . .

Kids supposed to be herding cattle. I suppose a plausible prequel of Brokeback Mountain.

But here they were, sitting at a cluttered kitchen table, playing cards.

Scruffy denim shirts and pants. Socked feet with glimpses of naked, peeking, toes and heels. Denim jackets piled up in the corner. Rifles stacked on a rack..

I was overwhelmed with the smell of roasting meat in the wood burning cook stove. There was a large stone hearth on the far wall with flickering flames, lots of red-hot coals. The kitchen area was littered with opened boxes, cans with sprung open lids. Chipped enamel pots. A tea kettle sizzling on the hot stove surface.

Guys. Roughin’ it. Lovin’ it. Coziness in the ambience of rolling thunder.

And the bed. A old coil spring bed.

It was a one-room abode, so the bed was protruding from the wall opposite the “kitchen” area.

One old, dilapidated bed. Rumpled up blankets. A black-bear hide crumpled up on top.

Seemed pretty obvious that all three of them slept together in that one lumpy old bed.

And it was then that I realized a reality before me that I could only vaguely imagine.

What would it be like to snuggle and cuddle for hours on end, for night after night, in that big old nest of a bed?

With the sound of the rolling thunder masking the intimate guttural rumbling. The noise of pounding rain obliterating the sighs and groans of passion. With a real bear hide to hide bare naked beneath.

And which one slept in the middle? And which ones slept on each side? And did they take turns? And who cuddled? And who was cuddled? And did they kiss? And did they let their legs intertwine? Wrap each other in their arms? Let faces press into necks?

And it was beyond my rational thought there might be anything else. I knew of nothing else. I was simply incapable of the knowing of anything else.

And who was the first to say “I’m tired. I’m goin’ to bed.”

And what did it take for them to eventually fall asleep?

And what was the morning like?

I have never forgotten that scene. That experience. That picture blazed into my nascent psych.

I knew nothing of being “gay.”

I did know the furry within in me to want to experience the experience of cuddling with a boy that I loved.

And so the sound of rolling thunder brings it all back with fury each time I hear it.

I have this terrific longing to be in an old cabin in the mountainous foothills, the foothills west of Calgary, in places like where Brokeback Mountain was filmed. In places like Priddis, a little town southwest of Calgary where my Dad did actually have a little farm when I was about 4 years old. And the memories of that winter (1949/1050) spent in Priddis.

So the rolling thunder re-ignites this longing to be in that kind of cabin again. With a fire in the hearth. With savory, aromatic victuals in the oven. With a bed with exquisite linens and things. With a man who cuddles and snuggles. With a feeling of fulfillment and contentment and sharing and receiving and giving and relishing in the glow of reciprocal love.

Yeah. I do dream of that.

And as the rolling thunder moves to the hills of yonder, that dream always dissipates with the waning rain.

But on another day, that rolling thunder always returns.

And so the dream never dies.

And the rain won’t wash it away.

The Refectory Manager