A Peacock Pie to Remember

Arnell, 2003:

Arnell Donnelly was a writer. He firmly believed in the candor books had been able to express, with stories and truths unshakable to the core, ringing with an anthem so soft and pure only the most attentive could hear. He considered himself a learner, a reflector; a scholar so to speak. His life had been built around books, he had been reading by the age of 3. Books were friends you could count on, who told adventures, truths, ideas, perspectives you could never experience. Arnell was fascinated by stories and legends, the ones that could be proven, the ones that had vivid retellings and a purpose in each human's mind. 

His family had not been shocked to any degree when he had gone to college and received a Bachelor's Degree in History with Teaching Credentials for his major, and a minor in journalism. His dream had been to write a history book, something that generations would read and learn from. Full of the highs and lows, of our great country’s history. 

In earnest, he had set off to complete this feat, and was nearly done with his first draft. He had called in countless people for primary resources, retelling the experience of historical events they witnessed or were a part of. And he was down to the last person on his list. A widow named Emma Hubert. She was 88, and a survivor of the Tri State Tornado.

It was 3:55 PM, and Arnell expected Mrs. Hubert to step in his office any second. When she did, he was a little put off. 

Emma looked nothing like other witnesses of an event of major degree like hers. She looked well, normal, he thought. She was a short lady, with short curly hair white as snow. She opened the door and walked in with a grandmotherly smile and walked gracefully and poised until she came to the front of his desk. Emma searched his face, and he studied her with his teeth absently chewing on a pencil. Her face was wrinkled, and her eyes shone with life and years of love. Crinkles on the side of her cheeks looked like they had been born of many wide smiles and laughter. Her eyes were clear, bright blue, and full of humor. Emma looked nothing like any other witness he had seen. She didn't look troubled or frightened, but downright jovial. 

 “Mrs. Hubert, how delightful to finally meet you!” Arnell greeted her warmly, and clasping her hand, led her to a cushioned chair perpendicular to his. 

“The delight is all mine Mr. Donnelly, I am honored you thought my account was worthy enough for your narrative.” She perched herself on the chair and folded her hands in her lap. “I understand you wish for me to recall the day of March 18th 1925?”

“Yes ma’am, your account will be vital for future generations of learners, and frankly anyone who will read this book. If you would, please tell me everything you remember, no detail is too small.”

“Alrighty.” Emma chuckled and drew a deep breath. Her eyes grew vivid and intense as she stared at something Arnell was unable to see. Her eyes shown as she drew memories from the reservoir of her mind, and her collective figure grew lucid as she began to speak. Arnell clutched his pencil tight, and listened carefully.

DeSoto County, Illinois. May 18th, 1925:

I remember everything that happened that day, it's as clear as glass to me. I was just barely ten, and I lived with my Mom and Dad in DeSoto Illinois. I had two sisters, Evelyn(8), Annie(16), and two brothers, Henry(13) and Blake(15). We lived in a beautiful little house on Cherry Lane. The outside was a cheerful yellow with somber grey trim. It wasn't big or grand, but it was home. My sisters and I all shared a room, and my brothers shared one too.

 May 18th began like any other. I woke up that morning and nudged Evelyn and Annie awake, and we got ready for school like we did every morning. I put my jumper on, It was my favorite, brown with little green flowers dotted across the top. I came downstairs for breakfast, and washed the dishes. It was a warmer morning which was not quite unusual, however we all were surprised at the blustery winds that ensued. My siblings and I began to walk to school around 7:45. School officially started at 8. We had a town school that was taught by one teacher. We lived in a rural town, and had a one room school. 

I remember my brother Henry and the other boys at school threw their caps in the air to see how far the wind would carry them. Several of them lost theirs in the effort. As we walked to school, we talked and ran and jumped and played. But we always took precautions to never be late; our teacher was a beast about tardiness. We had our lessons, Ms. Desmond taught us arithmetic and literature that morning. She read to us a poem from Walter de la Mare’s Peacock Pie, I still remember.

Mrs. Hubert stopped for a moment, then went on.

It read: Where is beauty?

Gone, gone:

The cold winds have taken it

With their faint moan;

The white stars have shaken it, 

Trembling down, 

Into the pathless deeps of the sea:

Gone, gone

Is beauty from me.

The clear naked flower 

Is faded and dead;

The green-leafed willow, 

Drooping her head, 

Whispers low to the shade

Of her boughs in the stream

Sighing a beauty, 

Secret as a dream.

2003 Arnell’s office:

Emma stopped again and looked thoughtful, her lips twisted in a pensive frown. Arnell watched her, and when she didn’t continue he poured water from the water dispenser in his room into a foam cup and offered it to Emma. She waved his offering away and continued.

1925 Illinois: 

My sisters, brothers, and I walked home from school for lunch at noon, and it began to pour. Rain came in unexpected showers as we sloshed home. The wind battered our soaking figures and all we could do was plod miserably along. I remember my brother Henry took the lead, taking the brunt of the wind. Blake walked behind him. Annie held my hand and I held Evelyn’s. When we finally made it home, we were all soaked and had to change. I didn't have any other clean dresses so I had to wear my easter one. The fabric was awful stiff, but at least I wasn't wet. 

We had our lunch, and began to walk back to school. It had stopped raining, but the winds were still just as strong. The winds pulled my dress every which way, and I went with it. For my siblings and I, it was just a fun game. We all tried to see who walked the straightest. We almost never had winds this strong, it was both alarming and exciting at the same time. After we got back to school, Ms. Desmond continued to teach us, though none of the students paid very much attention. My little sister Evelyn was a little scared at the howling outside, and clutched my arm tight. And then around 2:00, oddly enough the winds stopped. Everything was very still. Still as a statue. Not a bird sang, and not a blade of grass stirred. The world seemed to develop an ominous ardor. By 2:20 the winds had started up again. 

 The whole school was let out for recess at 2:30. The weather vane on top of the school had blown off, and children were desperately holding on to their hats. We all shouted and laughed at such funny weather. I played hopscotch with my friend Mary Anne. Mary Anne threw her rock, and it landed on 6. She took her turn and tossed the pebble to me. That’s when the sky began to turn black, around 2:35 I’d presume. I began to be awfully scared. The teacher ushered us all inside, she was visibly panicked. She barked at the boys to close all the windows, and the girls to sit quietly in the middle of the classroom. That's when we heard it. 

It sounded like a freight train, rumbling, loud, and powerful. The room grew so dark we couldn't see anything, several children shrieked, and the boys struggled as they tried to close the windows. Evelyn clutched my arm and we dove under a desk. At 2:38, it hit us. My ears thought they would burst from untold pressure, I couldn't see, couldn't hear, and I barely felt Evelyn being ripped from my grasp. Someone banged against the desk I was under, and I was thrown against the wood floor. My body was battered as everything our school had to offer was thrown against me. I curled myself into a ball and cried out to heaven above. All I could hear was the roar, and all I could feel was a beast coming to devour us. I savagely wished there was anyone with me, anyone. I screamed for my father and mother, for a savior, for anything.

 And then it was over, it went away as quickly as it came. There was wood and wreckage all around me; I was pinned in. Most of myself was laying under a desk, to one side was a wall, and the other side rubble was piled up . Wooden planks, roofing tiles, lunch pails, all of it. I was in a cavity that let no light through. The only reason I was not crushed was by the sheer stubbornness of the desk I lied under. I was still for quite some time, quietly shaking. There was absolute silence, a sound so desolate to me. Silence was a sound so foreign in our house (I had four siblings), I could not connote any positive feelings with it at all. I lay under pieces of debris and fragments until I heard Henry hoarsely call Evelyn’s and my name. 

“EMMA! EVELYN! Where are you?” His voice was faint.

“I’m right here.” I whimpered. No answer. “Over here!” I yelled. “HENRY, I’m over here.”

“Emma? I'm going to get help hang on.”

“Henry please don't leave me, HENRY!” I shouted. No answer. I was once again alone in darkness.

Arnell’s Office 2003: 

BUZZZ BUZZZ. The phone in Arnell's office rang monotonously. Emma stopped her narrative and looked up from her fixation on the floor. “Excuse me a moment,” Arnell gave her a tight apologetic smile. 

“What.” he answered flatly. “ Ok ok, I'll be sure to get it to ‘em.” The phone clanked as it was put back in its holder. “I’m sorry, please continue.” Emma nodded graciously and continued.

Desoto 1925:

I waited for what felt like hours, but was probably only about 30 minutes or so. I sang songs to myself to pass the time. I began to hear voices far away, coming nearer. I recognized Henry’s, and one of our neighbors, Mr. Fillmore.

 Mr. Fillmore lived across the street from us, with his dog and wife. He and Henry scraped and pulled away the debris and I began to gradually see light. I was lifted out of the crevice and for the first time got a glimpse of my surroundings. There was almost nothing left standing except a select house or two. It was all blown away. 

You see, where I come from in Illinois, when we say it was all blown away, everyone knows what you mean. There does not need to be any extra words concerning the matter as there is an understanding. When we say, “it was all blown away,” we describe that trees are flattened to the ground, and foundations of houses are reduced to nothing but wreckage. Pianos have been rolled into the streets, cars are found in fields, and fallen walls and timber litter the ground. Whole flocks of livestock have gone missing, and roofs are separated from their counterparts. Neighbors walk around bleeding from broken glass and the like, searching for lost family members. 

I had been happy that day, and all in the span of a few minutes I was desolate. I didn't have a home, and all I saw around me was hardship.

I had four siblings. Five of us went to school that day. Only two came back home. Evelyn and Blake were crushed under ceiling rafters and died on impact. My older sister Annie was found dead in an out-house with 3 other girls. My dad suffered a head injury when he was thrown against the wall at work. My mother miraculously went unscathed, but Dad had to go to a hospital. The hospital was so full, we had to wait in the basement until someone could treat him.

Our house was completely gone. There was nothing salvageable left. We had to build a lean-to out of spare lumber until my father could get enough money for another house. When Annie was found two days later, I remember hearing my mother talk to a friend saying,

“What troubles me most is that Annie and the other girls may not have been killed from the storm, but from hunger and thirst.”

That scared me silly. The whole ordeal was a nightmare, to say lightly.

Out of my class, thirty-three kids were killed. Only three of the boys shutting the windows lived, my brother Henry was one of them.

Our lives were never the same after March 18th. My father’s head never fully healed, and he died the following spring. My mother never complained, but soldiered on. Bless her heart. She only tried to make us good and happy, and to be able to go on with life again. She never complained about the affliction given to her. And I believe that is where my narrative ends, Mr. Donnelly. 

Arnell’s office 2003:

“Thank you very very much Mrs. Hubert, I am very grateful to you for this.”

“Of course, it was my pleasure.” Emma looked up at Arnell and smiled. 

“Ma’am, may I ask you a question?”

“Why certainly!”

“You've gone through so much, but just by looking at you no one could ever imagine it. How do you have joy when you have lost so much?”

“Mr. Donnelly, I have had my fair share of sorrow, yes. But I have also had my fair share of happiness and joy. The Good Lord never gives us more than we can handle, and I firmly believe that. I must drink out of the cup that has been set before me, and I do so with thanksgiving. I had a wonderful husband, and have many lovely children, grandchildren, and even a couple great-grandchildren. I have lived a life I am very grateful for, one that I am proud to be a part of. Every person’s tribulation is different, some are just more evident.” 

“Thank you Mrs. Hubert, for everything.”

Emma grinned, clasped Arnell’s hand once more, and left his office, the door shutting quietly behind her. 

Six Months Later:

Emma Hubert was sitting on her sofa, reading the daily paper when her doorbell rang. She opened the door and a cold draft seeped inside. On her doorstep, there was a brown cardboard box. The return address was from the Historical Society.

“How odd.” she voiced aloud her thoughts. The box had clear tape all around the sides and edges, and was fairly heavy. She carried the box indoors, set it on her kitchen table, and proceeded to cut through the tape. The box was freed and the top opened invitingly. Inside was a letter addressed to Mrs. Hubert, from Arnell Donnelly. Emma began to laugh and guffaw, she could guess what was in the box. 

“That dear boy did it,” she chuckled. The letter read,

Dear Mrs. Hubert, 

I am pleased to inform you that my history book, The Chronicles of USA History, has been published and a success. I think page 563 might interest you. 

Your friend, 

Arnell Donnelly. 

Emma opened the book, the pages bending at her will. She opened page 563, and smiled.