Being witness to wind and rain and storms and snow are still the strongest singular events that make me feel Keith’s absence. Bad weather would electrify him and turn him into a one man National Guard. After hours of watching the weather, tracking the path of the storm, analyzing the radar loops, he would formulate a plan.
His first directive was to head to the gas station with each vehicle and all 5 of our gas cans before the clouds moved in, topping off each vessel with all the gasoline they could hold. The generator that still sits in our garage, a silent reminder of Keith’s ever ready approach to threatening weather, would get the once over to make sure it would fire up when needed. Then it was a trip to the grocery store for water and canned goods. Then he’d busy himself around the yard to clear anything that could blow around. If snow was imminent, he’d line up all the cars at the end of our driveway, wiper blades lifted off the windshields as if they were reaching their black rubber arms to the sky, praying to be merciful to them. It was very clever of him because we never had to shovel the driveway and there were no trees to drop their snow laden branches on our precious modes of transportation.
After the snow passed, Keith would clean every snowflake off of every inch of all the cars and hop in the lead car which was always the best to drive in snow – because he had planned that out too – and take an assessment tour of the town. He’d come back home, babbling excitedly about all the drifts, impasses, emergency vehicles he drove by, reporting in on any damage, and which businesses were open and which were closed. Then it was back outside with him so he could shovel the steps and walkways.
If it was rain that fell, Keith would suit up and head out with his shovel in hand, always at the torrential stage, to dig trenches through the back yard to channel all the water away from the house. I’d sit in the nice dry house, peaking out the windows at him, watching the rain drench him and roll off his cheeks and nose, fascinated with how it didn’t ever seem to phase him as he trenched away. He never stopped to wipe his face or shake off the endless drops. I can still see the faint trails of those bygone trenches snaking across the back yard like ancient dry river beds. They are the mark of a man who was master of the elements, protector of home and family.
I tried to fill those shoes Wednesday. I found the shovel but left the gas cans empty, I moved my mother’s van to the end of the driveway but didn’t lift the blades, I ran to the store but only to get dog food and laundry detergent. I surveyed the scars of the old trenches – all the while feeling that old familiar heaviness that sits in my chest when I become acutely aware of who is not there. Keith must have sensed my distress because the blizzard that could have been wasn’t. The rain lifted, the winds subsided, and my weak attempt to batten down the hatches was more than enough to survive unscathed. Once again, he gives me the gift of returning to my life without him, as if to say he still is protecting his home and family – through this storm and all the storms to come.
