Tag Archives: persistence

1925. The Tri-State Tornado

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I have been researching the 1925 record-breaking tornado that leveled numerous small towns and killed over 600 people across Missouri, Illinois, and Indiana. That tornado still holds the record for death toll, time on the ground, and distance traveled. One factor that contributed to the terror felt by the communities was that there was no warning except for the dark clouds they noted in the southwest. No time to get to safety. Weather services were not equipped to predict the path of tornadoes  at that time. In fact, tornadoes were so unpredictable that weather services were not permitted to use that term because of the panic it might incite.

My interest in this storm was piqued by having had the privilege of talking to several survivors at one of the nursing facilities where I am a consultant. The stories of loss are heartbreaking, but the determination and courage shown by the survivors is inspiring. It is difficult to imagine losing every possession, one’s home, or several children within a matter of minutes. Many of the victims were trapped in basements, crushed beneath heavy objects, burned to death as coal stoves fell and timbers ignited. Clean-up included, not just pulling the rubble aside and rebuilding, but also searching for and identifying the bodies of loved ones, binding the wounds of the injured.

I am writing a work of fiction based on the experiences I’ve heard or read about relating to that tragic event. I hope to show the depth and extent of the devastation felt in the communities. But my focus will be on the way the destruction may have changed the survivors, and on their ability to find the will to mend and move forward.

 

 

How I learned determination

A small item in the February 16, 2015, issue of Time reported, “Your hands and feet dominate your feeling of overall thermal comfort, so stock up on the gloves and boot liners.” I was instantly transported to memories of Aunt Helen, who died in 1982 at the age of 88. Unschooled, but wise and practical, she would badger us with country wisdom, including the admonition, “Put socks on. When yer feet’s cold, yer cold all over.” She was way ahead of Time.

She was my aunt through marriage, but, thanks to the fertility of my grandmother, who continued to produce babies while her oldest sons were marrying, Aunt Helen was easily old enough to be my grandmother. In my eyes, though, she was ageless. Her gray hair clearly made her ancient. Yet, she eagerly maneuvered with me through barbed wire to explore the neighbor’s cow pastures behind the house, or hiked long miles through the woods beyond Swedesford Road to spend stifling afternoons having picnics at the county park, activities for which my frazzled, diaper- and Pablum-immersed mother could never muster the energy. When my aunt was not catering to my schemes, she ran the family service station, scurrying out in her flowered house dress and red Keds to pump gas into customers’ tanks long before women officially wrestled out their rights to perform “men’s” jobs.

Aunt Helen was vibrant and sassy, and certainly no saint. To the family’s frequent frustration, she was stubborn, single-minded to a fault, and an on-again-off-again alcoholic. But what I learned from her during my summer vacations, as I scrambled to keep up on the daily three mile hikes to the gas station, sweat streaming down my skinny legs, is that accomplishment comes in the doing, not the planning or hoping. I saw the way she named her goal, then tucked her chin and plowed forward like a linebacker, elbowing each obstacle out of her way, moving on, no matter what. That’s one thing I learned from her. That’s what got me through graduate school. Thank you, Aunt Helen.