Childhood is filled with universal milestones.
First words. First steps. First visit by the tooth fairy. First day of school.
But as the first anniversary of the tornado that destroyed their hometown arrives, the children of Greensburg face a number of unique — and unwelcome — milestones.
Unlike some rites of passage that can be marked on a calendar, such as the first day of school, prom and graduation, these milestones have no date stamped on them.
How long will it be, for instance, before they will be able to look at a cloudy sky and not feel fear?
When will the first time come that they hear thunder at night and not race to the basement or their parent’s bedroom?
With spring upon us again, do they lie awake at night, afraid that a storm will strike while they are asleep?
These are silent legacies of a deadly tornado that strikes at night, wounds that are harder to see and tougher to heal than many physical injuries.
They come with no road map, no timetable, no easy answers.
Only time, patience and understanding bring healing. Progress can’t be measured as easily as a house rebuilt or a street reopened.
It’s a journey I know a little something about.
I was only 4 at the time, but even at that age I could tell something was terribly wrong.
It was so dark outside in the middle of the afternoon that we had the lights on inside the house.
Mom looked worried as she ironed clothes and studied the glowering sky through a window. We had votive candles lit and every window in the house open to “equalize the pressure.â€
The tiny flames in the votive candles flickered in the breeze that burst sporadically through the screened windows, and the Venetian blinds clattered restlessly. I wasn’t sure what to make of it all, but the expression on Mom’s face bothered me.
She warned us we might have to head to the basement soon, so don’t wander off. My father and my older brothers were somewhere outside, watching the sky and checking on our livestock.
My great-aunt, who lived with us at the time, had already gone downstairs, not wanting to wrestle with the uncertainty.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere: “Get to the basement!â€
Dad’s words felt like an electric jolt. The hinges of the back screen door wrenched in protest as a powerful wind tried to pull the door from Dad’s grasp. I raced down the steps to the basement, but never heard my feet hit the concrete floor because the windows in the cellar exploded at that instant.
The cellar was an enclosed room, or I would have been showered with flying glass. My heart pounded as I ran to the hired man’s bedroom at the far end of the basement hallway, sat on the bed next to my great-aunt and covered my head, propping my elbows on my legs. The only window in the room was a small rectangle at ground level, so I never saw the tornado.
But I could hear it.
A distant rumble became a loud roar, and I wanted to crawl inside myself to hide. It sounded like a jet engine was flying right over the roof, and I could hear the house creaking and groaning above me.
Pressure filled my ears. I kept swallowing, trying to get my ears to pop. I waited for the house to disintegrate.
But it didn’t happen.
The tornado just missed the house, damaging outbuildings, shelterbelts and fence lines on our farm. Massive shed doors were flung hundreds of feet like oversized playing cards, over a shelterbelt and across a state highway.
Grain bins were crumpled like tin toys. One of them was twisted into a stretched spiral and became a marvelous play fort for my twin brother and me until we were too big to squeeze through the spiral staircase created by the tornado.
But for years after that, an uneasy sense of dread filled me every time storm clouds would gather in the spring and summer. I studied them for clues, fearing another tornado was imminent.
I began reading everything I could get my hands on about tornadoes and thunderstorms, hoping to learn what caused them.
The more I learned, the more the fear went away.
It’s why I take weather so seriously now, why I strive to keep readers informed when severe weather threatens.
I want to help people learn when to be concerned and when not to be, so they can protect themselves and their loved ones…so they can help their children deal with frightening moments…so we’re all in a better position to be safe when storms threaten.
Unlike the 1¾-mile wide monster that struck Greensburg a year ago today, the tornado that hit our farm when I was 4 did not happen at night, and it didn’t kill anyone.
But I understand all too well the journey that the children of Greensburg have begun.
