Tornado
by
James W. Nelson
It
was July 2, 1955.
I was ten. Cool
that morning but
the afternoon
turned sweltering.
My nephew, Curtis,
five, my very
best friend at
that time and
who I considered
almost my brother,
and I, had been
cleaning out the
south side of
the tar paper-covered
garage. The plan
is to set up a
table or two for
our farms and
toy soldiers.
It was a good
plan.
By five-thirty
we had finished
sweeping the dirt
floor. Mother
calls supper.
We head in. Huge
thunderheads are
rising over tall
spruce trees in
the southwest
yard. Rain sprinkles.
Sunrays make brittle
contrast against
the white house
and dark clouds.
Nothing about
the changing weather
seems really serious
but we hurry faster
anyway. We’ll
be safe inside.
But my dog, Pal,
very small, somewhat
Collie-like, stops,
whines softly,
then turns and
lopes in the opposite
direction, toward
her refuge under
the hoghouse,
where she has
raised several
litters, and,
as a puppy herself,
hid on the day
of her arrival
to the farm.
But it has rained
before and Pal
has not gone to
the hoghouse.
(Did she already
detect the changing
barometric pressure?
Or was it the
sixth sense that
some animals,
and some people,
have?) To Curtis
and me, nothing
seems serious.
Nothing at all.
We slip through
the east porch
door and are greeted
by the squeal
of 13-month-old
Celi, my niece
and a jabbering
bundle of smiles.
She sees us and,
propelling herself
with crossed legs
and feet, comes
scooting over
the floor on her
bottom.
From the corner
of the porch floor,
with crayons and
paper, three-year-old
Becky, another
niece, a beautiful
and intelligent
child with reddish-brown
hair and bright
blue eyes, asks
my mother, Lois,
“I’m
so hot, Grandma,
can I take my
dress off?”
Without waiting
for an answer
she snatches the
hemline and peels
it over her head.
She does look
more refreshed
in just panties,
so Curtis and
I remove our shirts.
Later, all of
us, including
my dad, Russell,
and sister, Gerry,
16, sit to eat.
A special affair
tonight for Mother
has just returned
from a Ladies’
aid bake sale.
Supper is mostly
finished by twenty
to seven. Anxious
to console Pal,
probably still
cowering under
the hoghouse,
and also to move
my toys into the
garage, I am first
to leave the table.
But upon reaching
the porch I see
a yellow glow
outside. Unexplainable
dread stops me.
The barn is about
thirty feet high
and sixty feet
long. Beyond its
peaked roof the
sky is pale blue.
The barn is bright
red against the
blue; its silver
cupola is gleaming.
The yellow glow
fades. Outside
begins to darken,
fast, yet the
sky beyond the
barn remains friendly-looking
mid-summer blue.
Fears stabs at
me as I hurry
back to the kitchen.
Everybody is already
up, standing silently
at the double
kitchen windows
facing north,
toward where darkness
is spreading,
covering the farthest
treetops quickly,
as if a sky monster
is swallowing
the sun. It is
so quiet. Nobody
is talking, and
outside not even
the sound of a
bird. Nothing.
The quiet is so
intense it’s
becoming a pressure
beginning to hurt
my ears.
A roar is becoming
apparent from
the west, like
a distant freight
train, usually
a pleasant sound
but now insidious,
rumbling, approaching
nearer and nearer,
faster. From where
there is no railroad.
“Boy,
we’re going
to get an awful
hailstorm,”
Mother announces,
“Hear that
roar?”
“I
think so too,”
Dad agrees.
But it’s
more than a roar.
It’s a sound
I’ve never
heard, nor imagined,
and it’s
beginning to terrify
me.
It’s terrifying
all of us. We
keep staring at
the silence and
calm right outside,
at the green of
our farmyard,
at the blue sky
where ragged fingers
of black cloud
are finally edging
into view, looming
over our thought
secure, tree-surrounded
farmstead.
From the floor,
Celi, sensing
terror from the
rest of us, begins
to whimper. Gerry
immediately kneels
and gathers the
usually happy
baby into her
arms.
“What’s
a hailstorm, Grandpa?”
Curtis asks.
BANG!
The crash is the
east porch door,
flung open. But
there is no wind.
Outside is still
absolute silence,
stillness except
for the intensifying
roar. Everybody
gapes. Nobody
knows what to
do. Time is passing
too quickly to
be able to do
anything. Dad
heads for the
porch door. Everybody
watches him. Eyes
wide, Curtis follows,
“Grandpa,
look at your car!”
We press against
the kitchen windows.
Outside the house
yard fence the
car is bouncing
up and down. But
it’s so
calm outside.
We couldn’t
know that fluctuating
pressure preceding
the storm is making
strange things
happen seemingly
without substance.
Dad didn’t
know. Mother didn’t.
Much too early
in the century.
The media blitz
has not yet hit,
consumer weather
forecasting is
still in infancy.
Our communications
is a radio not
listened to during
meals, a hand-powered
telephone not
ringing.
But nobody in
the community
yet knew either,
for the storm
had first formed
several miles
west in uninhabited
pasture, then
the tornado that
came from it had
hopped and skipped
causing little
damage, to escalate
a mile west of
our farm. There
would be no warning.
No time to get
to the cellar.
One entrance outside,
another under
linoleum in the
kitchen. And still
we have no realization
we even need better
shelter.
Like a balloon
filled, the pressurized
car pushes its
weakest point,
a poorly latched
door, and pops
it open.
“Mother,
you didn’t
get the car door
shut,” Dad
exclaims, “Now
it’ll blow
open and break!”
Dad does not leave
the house to close
the car door,
for the unknown
fear grips us
all, but he does
step out slightly,
grips the porch
door, pulls it
shut.
BANG!
It explodes right
open again, harder,
seeming to shake
the house. The
roar now seems
right on top of
us. The trees
north and west
of the barn begin
straining, leaning
east as if a mighty
magnet pulls them,
yet the house
itself still feels
no wind. Little
Becky stands among
us, as in nonthinking
awe we watch the
trees bending
so far as to touch
the ground.
Then the barn
and other outlying
buildings begin
leaning east,
again as if a
magnet pulling,
not wind pushing.
Everything close
is still so quiet.
Farther away everything
is happening so
fast, and it’s
so hard to believe,
and accept. We
still have no
full realization
of a dangerous
wind. No realization
we should do anything
but stand, watch,
in shock believing
that nothing so
bad as what’s
happening could
really be happening.
Suddenly the unseen
magnet is winning.
Everything beyond
the house yard
gate begins breaking
apart, sending
boards, shingles,
branches flying
around and around.
The terrible roar
now sounds like
ten freight trains
about to crash
into the house.
The pressure in
my ears feels
like I’m
going under water.
The car door blows
open, then wrenches
and twists itself
around to the
front windshield,
then it’s
moving on its
own across the
yard. The 60-foot
windmill, like
a matchstick,
topples east.
The barn and granary
roofs lift, and
are gone, disappeared.
The barn, like
a stand of dominoes,
collapses to the
east, its siding
and insides erupting
like a hail of
arrows. Like a
cardboard box,
the wooden granary
rolls across the
yard, west, opposite
everything else.
An animal, small
and dark, hurries
across the yard,
toward the disintegrating
barn, looking
for a place to
hide. Pal! I know
it’s Pal!
But my mind cannot
concentrate, cannot
conceive anything
but recognition
of my beloved
pet. The image
of her, small
and frightened,
ingrains in my
mind.
Pal disappears
as dirt and other
flying objects
fill the air.
Mindlessly I run
for her. Dad grabs
me, returns me
to where everyone
has moved away
from the window.
We’re now
clustered in the
center of the
room. And still
we continue witnessing,
dumb-like, the
unimaginable disaster
occurring outside.
Suddenly the house
is shaking, furiously.
Dishes are falling
from cupboards,
clattering, crashing,
breaking.
“Everybody
into the west
bedroom!”
Dad shouts, then
begins guiding
us there. But
I glance back.
The east porch
is breaking away
from the house.
Wide-eyed Curtis
is still there,
engraining more
memory, then disappears
into a curtain
of dust and debris.
The rest of us
crowd into the
small bedroom,
my bedroom, where
I’ve slept
in safety all
my life, awakening
happily to birthdays
and tooth fairy
visits. I look
back once more.
The kitchen linoleum
has bubbled halfway
to the ceiling.
The refrigerator
is rocking back
and forth as if
dancing, crazily.
Everything, everywhere,
is moving, falling,
breaking.
The horrible sound
outside is like
a brutal sandblaster
crunching the
walls. The only
other real sound
is Celi in Gerry’s
arms, crying,
not in paralyzed
shock like the
rest of us.
Everything outside
the west window
is white, all
white. The house
groans, cracks,
moving and twisting
beneath our feet.
“Here
goes the house.”
Dad says it calmly,
resigned, for
there is nothing
he can do to stop
it, nothing he
could have done.
No time. No warning.
No prior experience.
The house is actually
lifting into the
air, doing the
impossible...and
breaking apart.
The west window
shrieks as it
bursts from its
casing, smashes
into my back,
ending my awareness
for I don’t
know how long.
*
* * * *
The
next thing I remember
is continuous
thunder and lightening.
Rain and hail
is pouring in
cold, terrifyingly-cold,
torrents driven
by fierce straight
wind...and my
screaming voice,
“God, I
don’t want
to die!”
From the night-like
darkness, sitting
though with her
back broken, comes
my mother’s
voice, “Jimmy,
you’re not
going to die.”
Dad struggles
from the ground,
pulls me up to
sit, then stands,
stares at an incinerated
landscape, “Everything
is gone.”
Not a hole remains
where several
huge boxelder
trees stood south
of the house.
The now fenceless
lawn is bare dirt,
scorched, as if
a fire has swept
by. The few remaining
trees on the outskirts
of where the thick
grove had been
are stripped of
bark, have a burned
appearance. No
sign of buildings.
Nothing. Only
smashed and slivered
boards.
The sound of galloping
hooves comes from
the north. The
two black draft
horses, Dixie
and Daisy, are
followed by ten
wild-eyed, panting
milk cows, running
not as fast but
bucking, kicking,
their flopping
udders swelled,
unmilked, then
are gone, disappearing
into the gauze
of shock surrounding
us.
From beneath a
section of wall
comes Gerry’s
cry for help.
Though his arm
is cracked, Dad
lifts it off as
if cardboard.
Then, strength
gone, he sinks
to the ground.
No grandchildren
in sight. Nobody
with the strength
or even presence
of mind to search
for them.
“I’ll
go get help,”
Gerry says, now
sitting up.
“You
can’t,”
Dad answers, “Where
would you go?”
Still crying I
ask, “Daddy,
are we in a dream?”
“No,
Son. This is really
happening.”
So we lay in the
cold and rubble
of our farm with
unknown injuries
and dirt ground
into our skin,
thinking—if
thinking at all—that
everybody would
be like us, helpless,
that there would
be no help.
Headlights appear
on the road. Always
heavy foliage
growth had prevented
seeing lights
except in winter,
but now the grove
does not exist.
We watch the headlights
until they stop
right in front
of us.
“Where
are the children?”
They ask.
Nobody knows.
Three men have
arrived. Art Blair,
Dad’s cousin,
and his visiting
sons, Woody and
Johnny. They live
one mile north,
have watched the
tornado destroy
the farm, and
came as soon as
it was possible.
They load us.
Becky and Celi,
covered with dirt,
are found almost
immediately because
the car had barely
missed them. But
no Curtis. Two
men will stay
to look. Curtis
can’t be
seen because of
day-darkness and
because he is
so covered with
dirt, but within
two hundred feet
a frightened little
boy is buried
in sand to his
waist, arm broken
in three places,
shouting and frantically
waving his good
arm.
Little talk occurs
as we ride up
to 100mph toward
the nearest hospital
at Breckenridge,
Minnesota. I sit
in front between
Woody and Dad,
who announces,
“I’m
freezing to death.”
Mother and Gerry
ride in back with
baby Celi between
them. Becky lies
face down on the
floor. Mother,
unable to move
herself, asks
Gerry to move
Becky off her
face.
“No,
I can’t.”
Gerry holds her
neck and head,
unaware her neck
is broken, “It
hurts too bad.”
Neither knows
Becky’s
head is nearly
crushed in several
places, worst
in back, and that
lying on her back
might have killed
her.
Between them little
Celi moves once,
takes one breath.
“Little
Celi is gone.”
Mother speaks
with no emotion.
There are no tears
from anyone.
Six miles from
the hospital a
rear tire blows
out. Passers-by
have it changed
in minutes. While
there a woman
announces that
bad weather is
coming.
“Oh,
no!” Gerry
cries out, “We
can’t go
through it again!”
Minor damage did
occur in the Breckenridge,
Minnesota/Wahpeton,
North Dakota area.
Whether the same
storm cell is
unknown.
At the hospital
the undertaker
pronounces both
granddaughters
dead and asks
Woody to take
them to the funeral
home.
“No,
I can’t.
There’s
a little boy back
there who hasn’t
been found, and
I’m going
back to look for
him!” In
fact, Curtis had
been found and
already was at
the hospital.
The undertaker,
Joseph Vertin,
then picks Becky
up. When he turns
her over in his
arms she moans,
prompting him
to carry her four
flights to the
emergency room.
Our wounds are
attended by Doctor
N.R. Kippen, a
kind man who continued
to attend my parents
until they died
in 1996 and 1997.
Later I hear that
wire brushes were
used to clean
our sand-pitted
skin, especially
Curtis’
and mine, as we
had been without
shirts. I remember
pain, hearing
myself and Curtis
screaming, but
nothing more during
those early hospital
hours.
My other sister,
Helen, has arrived.
A young girl stays
by her side throughout
that first night.
Helen later describes
her as a guardian
angel, and does
not see her again.
Dad is seen by
Helen first. His
face appears as
if a hot iron
has rubbed across
it. “Helen,
we couldn’t
find Curtis.”
Mother, lying
on her stomach
while her deeply
gashed hips are
worked on, is
next. “Helen,
your baby is dead.”
Turning to leave,
Helen walks past
Gerry, who is
cut so badly Helen
doesn’t
recognize her.
Gerry sobs helplessly
that she had been
holding Celi and
lost her.
Helen does not
see Becky now,
but she’s
been told Becky
is not expected
to live until
morning. So Curtis
and I are next.
“Mommy!”
Curtis cries out,
“Grandma
and Jimmy can
fly just like
birds! Can Grandpa
and Grandma come
live with us,
Mommy? Because
they don’t
even have a house,
everything is
gone!”
“Yeah,
we’ll figure
out something.”
Helen does figure
out a lot of things
in the next weeks
and months. She
becomes our strength
to go on. (I cannot
even begin to
imagine the pain
Helen was feeling
as she walked
through the hospital
learning the fate
of her children,
and the rest of
her family.)
“And
then they left
me, Mommy. I hollered
and hollered to
Grandpa but they
just drove away.”
(My little nephew,
Curtis, how he
must have felt
right then, with
Grandpa, and all
of us, just leaving
him, just breaks
my heart.)
Helen consoles
her little boy
as best she can.
“Curtis,
your little sister
Celi is in heaven,
and God might
want to take Becky
too.”
Curtis thought
for a second,
“I hope
He doesn’t,
Mommy, but if
He does, we’ll
just have to try
to understand
and be brave.”
*
* * * *
God
didn’t take
Becky then, but
her head had been
badly injured.
She was rendered
unconscious for
seven weeks, to
awaken helpless
as a newborn and
to never fully
recover mentally.
But thick brunette
hair came to cover
her scars, and
with bright eyes,
though one blind,
a clean and clear
complexion, pretty
smile and jolly
laugh, she became
our beautiful
little girl anyway.
She loved crafts,
the music of CHARLIE
PRIDE, and baking
chocolate chip
cookies for all
her favorite men
(me included!).
She sometimes
frustrated our
attempts to communicate,
but she always
gladdened our
hearts with her
presence, until
she died in her
sleep in 1983,
at 31.
We did get a house
to live in, provided
by Edwin Overboe
of Kindred, North
Dakota. Helen
lived with us,
nursed us, and
her working husband,
Clayton, joined
us every evening.
The Red Cross,
churches, organizations,
hundreds of families
and individuals
aided us and other
storm victims
who lost everything,
giving food, money,
countless hours
of labor.
My family and
I remember that
terror, The Storm,
that period in
our history where
everything else
happened either
before The Storm,
or after. But
now we have a
comparison point,
something to weigh
against every
other bad thing
that could ever
happen again.
The experience
instilled in me
that bad things
can and do happen,
that they can
be that bad, so
I try not to take
good things for
granted. For fifty-four
years I have experienced
only rare days
without remembering.
*
* * * *
Two
weeks after The
Storm, after my
cuts and bruises
were well on their
way to healing
(I was hurt the
least, the worst
being a sprained
ankle) I would
see what was left
of the farm.
Nothing.
Rubble. Piles
of splintered
trees and boards.
Unbelievably twisted
machinery.
Helen and Clayton
brought me. I
sat between them
in a 1950 Ford
Coupe. Never could
I have imagined
the utter devastation.
This place had
been my playground,
a storybook farm.
I buried my face
in Helen’s
side and cried.
For months afterward
many things would
frighten me, even
things unrelated
to the weather.
I guess I must
have thought a
tornado lurked
around every corner.
At the age of
ten I knew my
home was invulnerable
to any threat.
Now, fifty-four
years later, I
know that no home—in
fact, nothing—is
invulnerable.
Twice, about a
mile distant and
during stormy
weather, I have
seen what looked
like huge whirlwinds
(likely tornadoes
that did not fully
form) maybe two
or three hundred
feet high. Both
times west of
me, so, of course,
had it been the
real thing it
would have came
toward me, because
vicious weather
comes from the
west, not the
east. And both
times they lasted
just seconds.
Twice more I have
seen clouds directly
overhead whirling
and twirling,
boiling, but no
tail came down.
Twice more I have
seen tails hanging
in the sky, far,
far, up and away
(A thousand feet
high? Two thousand?
More?) and not
moving, just hanging
there doing nothing,
basically, and
finally disappearing.
Later I learn
that they are
what are known
as cold weather
funnels, which
can, possibly,
grow and become
violent. Many
more times I have
seen clouds rolling
and tumbling over
and over each
other, always
from the northwest
to the southeast.
But never have
I seen a live
tornado, except
on television.
I guess I should
count myself lucky.
But still, whenever
storm clouds darken
the sky I go outside
and watch them,
until rain or
straight wind
forces me inside.
(I used to think
that rain would
mean the violence
was over, but
I guess that’s
not exactly true.)
And when the weather
comes at night,
if there’s
any sign of red
or purple on the
TV radar, and
close to me, I
cannot sleep.
I keep watching
through the window
until the thunder
and lightening
is just distant
noise. A few years
ago National Geographic
Magazine had an
article about
tornadoes (April
2004). On pages
18-19 there is
a map of the US
of variously-colored
lines showing
all known trails
of tornadoes since
1950. If you look
at North Dakota,
notice in the
southeastern corner
the two straight
yellow lines.
Yellow means F4
and F5, the biggest
and meanest. One
I’m sure
represents the
Fargo tornado
in 1957. (One
of the most heart-breaking
photographs I’ve
ever seen appears
later in The Forum
newspaper: A rescue
worker holding
the body of a
small child, one
of six children
killed and all
in the same family.)
The other yellow
line I’m
pretty sure represents
my tornado: the
1955 Walcott tornado.
What I’m
trying to get
to here is that
I’ve watched
the formation
and dissolution
of dozens, maybe
hundreds of storms
in these years
since 1955. And
many times I have
been frightened—yes,
frightened, maybe
not terrified
but frightened—watching,
these, freaks,
of nature. So
why do I do it?
Why don’t
I just take shelter
and wait it out?
I’ll tell
you why. Because
if one of these
freaks of nature
is trying to kill
me again I want
to see the mutherfucker
coming!
Neighbors and
friends and other
volunteers had
found and buried
the dead livestock,
mostly little
pigs, some found
hanging in trees.
No kitties survived.
And the cows and
horses survived
simply because
they had been
far to the north
in the pasture.
A friend, Volney
Stevens, I heard,
found and buried
Pal, and marked
her grave with
the leg from a
blue wooden chair.
I looked but I
never found her
grave.
We—Dad,
Mother, Gerry,
and I—would
return in October.
We would rebuild
in the same spot,
with all the buildings
just where they
had been. Actually
the only new building
would be the barn.
The hog house
and granary (looking
very much like
the ones destroyed)
would be found
on other farms
and moved in.
Our house would
come from a kind
man from Sheldon,
North Dakota.
(I’m sorry,
sir, but I don’t
know your name.)
Cleanup would
go on for years,
but we did recreate
a storybook farm.
I say “storybook”
because that farm
had everything.
The approximately
10-acre farmstead
was located directly
on the boundary
of east and west.
East of the house
was the new calf
pasture, about
three acres of
green grass and
boxelder trees
growing from the
roots still left
in the ground
from the mature
grove that had
been there. East
beyond the calf
pasture was flat
agricultural field
land.
Approximately
100 feet west
of the house began
the pastures and
hay meadows. Native
grass, wildflowers,
wild animals,
and hills.
The
new barn became
a magic place
for me. A bull
pen was located
in the northwest
corner, with a
new bull every
year. We always
had three purebred
Holstein bulls,
a days-old calf,
a yearling, and
a two-year-old
taking care of
the cows. We were
slowly developing
a purebred dairy
herd. The bulls
were named after
the farmer where
we got them. Several
were named Frank,
one Dell, and
one Terry. Dairy
breed bulls are
known for being
mean, but they
all respected
the whip. They
didn’t seem
to understand
that the little
whip we carried
would mean nothing
if they were to
charge. Three
calf pens held
calves of different
ages. An enclosed
room held ground
oats and corn
for feed. Another
room held a small
machine that separated
raw milk into
skim milk—which
we fed to the
young calves,
cats and dogs,
and piglets—and
cream, which we
sold.
The south side
of the barn held
about a dozen
stalls, one for
each of the milk
cows: Red, Knothead,
Domino, Snowflake,
Cutie-face, Keyhole,
Brutus, Sparkle,
Mabel, Chief Kickapoo,
and Tiny, a dear
little Guernsey
with horns. Nearly
every animal had
a name. The cats
were Major (a
bobcat/domestic
cross), Currents,
Halloween, Patches,
Puff, Frisky,
Tommy, and Sylvester.
Even some of the
pigs had names
(but naming forty
piglets became
a chore).
I had four bottle
lambs one year.
They were provided
by Alder Helling,
a dear neighbor.
They became bottle
lambs either because
they were too
weak to nurse
properly or their
mother would reject
them. I gave them
Indian names from
THE SONG OF HIAWATHA
by HENRY WADSWORTH
LONGFELLOW.
No creatures on
earth ever gave
me so much trouble.
Imagine having
just two hands
but four lambs
all wanting to
get fed at the
same time. Normally
I didn’t
have help. I don’t
remember how I
handled it. Because,
basically, only
one could get
fed at one time,
because the nipple
would not stay
on the bottle
unless you held
it on, and of
course the lamb
is bunting the
bottle (and me),
because instinct
is telling him/her
that bunting will
increase the milk
flow. And had
I and the bottle
been its natural
mother with an
udder then his/her
instinct would
have been correct.
There were several
cuss words and
much spilled milk.
But I loved them.
And they wouldn’t
stay in their
pen (which was
built for the
much bigger calves).
The instigator
was always the
black-faced one
I called Nokomis.
Nokomis was the
leader of the
lambs and also
a leader in the
poem of HIAWATHA.
But I strongly
believe that if
Nokomis hadn’t
been there one
of the others
would have led.
And of course
there were more
dogs: Sport, Tornado,
Queenie, King,
but no dog to
this day has ever
taken the place
of Pal.
And I kept wild
creatures: a horned
lark, a great
horned owl, a
raccoon, a cottontail,
white-footed mice,
galvanized tubs
for aquariums
and terrariums.
And nature visited
our farm: crows,
magpies, ducks
and geese, great
blue herons, minks
and weasels, deer,
fox, rabbits and
squirrels. And
right there on
the farm I had
160 acres of trees,
pastures, shelterbelts,
wetlands, to explore.
If I wanted to
walk west I could
go for miles and
miles and never
see another human
being or habitation.
I was happy. I
was satisfied.
I loved my life.
But I guess I
wasn’t really
learning much
about life. Because
then teenage confusion
set in and a few
years later I
joined the navy.
But that’s
another story.
©
2010 by
James W. Nelson
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