The Tornado
Mary Ann Weakley
It was a school day in mid-March, 1942. Three of my four older brothers had already walked to the small one-room country school a mile down the road from our house. My oldest brother, Bill, was at high school in Bement, a small town five miles west of our farm. Mother had kept me home from first grade that day because of a cold. My father, a corn and beans farmer, had left for Decaturforty miles away, to visit my Uncle Vince, his twin.
A windy, rainy day was developing. Mother was going about her kitchen duties, baking pies and already thinking about the evening meal and how to feed five children and a farmer husband. I busied myself playing with my dollsa baby doll with a pink checked Shirley Temple dress with satin ribbons and a favorite nun doll in a long black dress with rosary beads hanging from her black belt. I seldom had a day to play free from torment by those big brothers. Although sick, I was looking forward to a whole day alone with Mom.
Gradually, the heavy rain turned my play day into a windy gray day. Even so, I looked forward to Mr. Bloomingdales visit. In those days, groceries were regularly delivered to country people by hucksters, the mobile vendors of the 40s. Mr. Bloomingdale, our huckster, came in his big white van once a week. My brother now says, I dont remember it was big. I was six; it seemed big to me. Mr. Bloomingdale was a roly-poly jolly man, with a balding head, a round face, and a smile that glowed like his head. Groceries to me meant penny candy treats. Since starting to school, I seldom had the opportunity to 'shop' in Mr. Bloomingdales van. Mom had promised a treat to me that day. It was early afternoon when the white van pulled into our long driveway. The winds had become furious and darkened the sky in the west. The rain was falling so hard we could not see our neighbors house, which was only a quarter of a mile down the road.
Mr. Bloomingdale dashed quickly onto the back closed-in porch and into the kitchen, nearly tripping over Bills new boots.
Nasty storm brewing out there, he said. The rain on his shiny, wet pate glistened.
Mother wiped the flour from her hands onto her flowered apron, then gave him her grocery order, the usual staples needed for bakingflour, sugar, vanilla, and spices. We had our own milk, butter, and eggs from our cows and chickens. I felt sorry that Mr. Bloomingdale would have to go through the rain to his van again to fill the order. Patiently, I waited for a signal that I could also get my 'groceries.' Finally, Mother sent me to get her purse. I dashed toward the bedroom in the front of the house to find it.
Rain storms had never frightened me before. In fact, I remember often the pleasure of watching a cool summer rain coming across the fields. In the almost silent sounds of the country we could actually hear the rain on the stalks of corn as it came closer and closerwashing the dusty leaves of thirsty corn as it approached.
But that day was different. The wind began to hammer on the side of the house, harder and harder. The rain came in waves of gray, the sky grew dark. In the west front bedroom, unaware of the approaching danger of the storm, my mind was intent on searching for Moms purse. Eerily and suddenly, the windows became dark as though black shades had been drawn over them like a veil of dirt. As I looked up, I saw the west corner of the room cracking open at the ceiling, revealing a muddy darkness. Hearing my mother scream to me, I ran back toward the kitchen, through the living room and then the dining room, nearly blinded now by the darkness. The last thing I felt was Moms arms grabbing around me as we met in the doorway of the dining room. Noise, nighttime darkness, and dirty rain engulfed us. It must have been only seconds, then suddenly as it began, a stillness contrasted to the hammering wind. Light rain was falling. It was over. After a time, a faint glimmer of light began to return to the western sky.
Mother and I were crouched next to the brick foundation of the house on the outside, though we were in the center of the house when we met in the doorway. That foundation was our only protection. There was no sign of the house, no upright walls, no rooms. We made our way out through the debris in the yardover broken furniture and glass, bricks and fallen wirestoward the driveway. Searching for Mr. Bloomingdale, we saw him walking slowly toward us with blood streaming down his face. A flying brick or a board had apparently struck him as he fled out the back door toward his van. The van was gone, but not far. Unexplainably, it was parked about forty feet away in the barn, as though it had been driven directly there. The barn, still partially standing, became our shelter.
I dont remember even crying, though I must have. Dangerous debris was strewn everywhere. Mother took my hand, led me out cautioning, Dont step on wires; be careful of broken glass. A tangled spaghetti of electrical and telephone wires was strewn across the yard entwined with glass, bricks, and boards.
As the storm dissipated, the neighbors and the curious gradually began to fill the roadside, stopping to survey the incomprehensible damage. Friends from nearby farms, concerned with our welfare, offered to give us shelter and care. My mother had been injured; she and Mr. Bloomingdale were taken to the hospital. A neighbor volunteered to take me to my Uncles farm, a few miles away. The boys were still at school, oblivious to the damages at home.
Still in Decatur, my father received word that the tornado had hit our farm. The message he received, The children are safe at school and Lena has been taken to the hospital to be checked, only unnerved him more. While it was relieving news, it also caused him alarming anxiety. He knew that I was not in school.
The forty miles from Decatur with my Uncle Vince, though traveled in record time, must have never seemed longer to them. Uncle Vince told stories of that ride. With my father driving, he feared for his own life, as the 39 Plymouth bounced over the road, touching only the tops of the small rises as it flew. Few words were spoken. My fathers fear was that I must be dead and no one wanted to tell him over the telephone.
The farmland of central Illinois is flatyou can see for miles, unobstructed by hills. Only an occasional farm windmill or grain elevator rises on the landscape. Once they turned down our road, the Tracy farm and then the Abel farm were visible, but there was no house or trees in the distance where our house once stood.
When the twin brothers got to the scene of the disaster, cars were parked zigzag up and down the road making it more difficult to reach our driveway. Still no one could tell them of my whereabouts. Surveying the devastation, there seemed little chance that anyone could have survived.
After visiting my mother in the hospital, they learned that she had a broken collarbone and would need a couple of days to recuperate. My father was assured that I was safe at my uncles farm. Still not convinced, my fathers next trip was to the farm on the hill, another wild ride over bumpy country roads. The only assurance he had at this point was that the boys were safe at school. The one-room schoolhouse had not been hit, and Bill was safe at the high school.
Upon reaching my uncles farm on the hill, they went into the house and found no one. Close to the main house was a smaller dwelling, the home of the tenant farmer. My uncle employed a hired man who lived there and worked full time for him, caring for his Percheron workhorses and other livestock. Hoping to find some answers, they called to Velma, the tenants wife. They entered the little three-room house. There, in the middle of the kitchen, they found me sitting calmly in a big, round, No. 3 galvanized tub of water, getting a bath and my hair washed by Velma. Miraculously, I had not a scratch on me. Protected, no doubt, by my Mothers arms.
After a few days Mother was home from the hospital. Mr. Bloomingdale suffered a near fatal concussion and brain damage. He was released after months of hospitalization and therapy, but sadly he was never able to continue his grocery route in the country.
A tornado leaves an eerie calling card. Strange phenomena occurred. Pieces of straw were driven through telephone poles. A fire was still burning in the round-bellied old stove, now sitting in the front yard. My brother Bill told me that he found his new boots at the back porch right where he left them. A new icebox, upturned and dented, lay in the driveway. It still worked and lasted another fifteen years. Even the animals did not escape the freakish storm. A large board was driven into the withers of a workhorse in the pasture, as though it were a sliver in a finger. No longer could I find my pet chicken, Babe. There was no identifying blue feather to be seen. Feathers were gone. Maybe Babe was too. I was never sure. The favorite little nun doll clung to the broken branches of a tree, her rosary beads gone, but otherwise intact. The Shirley Temple doll never survived the storm. For days, family and friends helped to sift through the rubble to salvage whatever could be found whole. Small discoveries of personal mementoes brought joya precious family photo, a favorite dish, or family keepsake. People came from miles away to help pick up debris scattered across the section marking the path of the storm.
Amazingly, even the most traumatic memories can soon be diluted for a six year old. We moved to a different country house. There was a new school with new friends to meet. I received lots of different clothes, many hand-me-downs from neighbors. But best of all, I remember one very special little red coat with brass buttons and a matching hat. Brand new! The years have faded the memory of who gave it to me. However, sixty-plus years later there still exists a worn picture of an awkward six-year-old standing proudly, wearing the red coat and matching hat. The picture, a faded brown tint now is a reminder that the trauma of one fearful rainy day also has faded, but the coat with brass buttons is still vividly red in my memory. It brings a smile and a feeling of triumph over trauma.
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Mary Ann Weakley was born in Illinois, where she lived nearly a lifetime. After retiring from a career in education, she and her husband ventured to Tennessee with no job, no home, no acquaintancesonly an adventurous spirit. She began a new career as an interior decorator in Nashville. Now living in Spring Hill, Tennessee, and semi-retired from decorating, she devotes time to writing personal essays. Currently, she is working on a memoir and profiles of admirable women who shared part of her lifetime in Illinois.
© Mary Ann Weakley