Sunday Afternoon In April

It was a lazy spring day in 1930. Our family had all changed out of our Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes. We had eaten a delicious noontime dinner of fried chicken and all the trimmings.

 Momma and my older sister, Opal, were busy in the kitchen. Daddy had taken his button-up shirt and his t-shirt off and was napping on the sofa in the living room.

After feeding leftover corn and peas to the chickens, I played outside with Cousins Eva and Molly. Eva was 9 and I was 8. Molly was only 5.

We were having fun, but the April day in southern Oklahoma was hot and muggy. For respite from the heat and the wind, we retreated to the front porch. There, we sat on the steps, downed refreshing ice-cold sweet tea, and devoured warm chocolate chip cookies fresh from Momma’s oven.

We could see the sloping farmland south of our perches. Farmland rich with soil recently plowed and cotton seeds planted. In a few days, tender green shoots would be visible above the reddish-brown rows.

We saw whirlwinds, called dust devils, in the field. One would swirl down and kick up dirt for a bit, swirl upward, and disappear. At first, we thought nothing of it. Then, we began to count them. When we had counted nine dust devils, we realized clouds from the southwest were taking over the sky. Dark, dense clouds. Moving fast.

“Do those look like rain clouds to you?” I asked. “We sure could use some rain.”

We stood and watched for a while. The wind was blowing harder.

“They might hold rain or even hail, but they ain’t or’inary rain clouds,” Eva pointed. “Look at the bottoms of ‘em.”

“Why, they kinda look like dust devils, ‘cept in the sky.” Molly noticed.

“Daddy!” I yelled. I turned and rushed inside, letting the screen door slam behind me. “Daddy, git up. You gotta look out the winda. Quick.”

Still drowsy, he folded into a sitting position before standing to his full six feet two inches. He glanced out the window, did a double take, and yelled into the kitchen, “Alice, Opal, fetch the boys. We’re goin’ to the cellar.”

He turned to me, “Midge, help your momma!”

“What about Eva and Molly?”

“We’ll grab’em as we go.” He yelled out the door to them, “Ya’ll stay put.”

Daddy slipped his shoes on. Then, he struggled again and again with his t-shirt but couldn’t get it on. His nervousness and struggle with the t-shirt scared me as much as the weather did. I got more scared just watching him, thinking the tornado would get us before Daddy was dressed descent.

While Momma and Opal got my brothers, Charles and Russell, out of the boys’ bedroom, I grabbed my littlest brother, Jackson. When I got back in the living room, Daddy had the t-shirt on and was buttoning up another shirt.

Our family joined Cousins Eva and Molly on the porch. Momma stopped to lock the door to the house, but Daddy told her, “Git a move on, woman! Lockin’ the door won’t stop a tornada.”

The nine of us had to get to the cellar, about twenty yards from the house. We grabbed hands and clutched each other as we struggled against the building storm.

It was gettin’ dark.

The wind nearly blew us over.

I was surprised that Jackson didn’t cry.

Big drops of rain seemed to come at us sideways.

The cellar was covered with a concrete slab about nine feet square. On one side and slanted from the concrete slab to the ground was a rustic barn door that covered the steps into the cellar.

Daddy pulled on the heavy chain attached to the door. He yanked the door open and held on tightly to keep it from tearing loose in the horrible storm.

Once everyone had come down the steps, Momma used a match to light the only kerosene lamp. Daddy and Charles put on gloves that were already there. They needed the gloves so they could hold on to the heavy chain. That way they could keep the wind from pulling the door open and sucking anyone out of the cellar.

On a makeshift bench, Momma and Opal sat close holding hands while I kept baby Jackson on my lap. I suspected Momma was silently praying and decided to pray, too. I prayed that God would protect the chickens, our family, and our neighbors.

Cousins Eva and Molly sat close to me and hugged each other. Russell sat cross-legged on the floor.

It smelled like dirt in there, and no wonder. Not only did the cellar have a dirt floor and stairs, but it also had dirt walls. Dust seemed to rise from everywhere as if it wanted to reach the tornado.

I did not know much about tornados or how long they lasted. But I saw all the canned jars of fruits and vegetables stored on wooden boards separated by cinder blocks. I thought Momma had canned enough food to last us a long while.

We heard the hits of hard rain and hail. Tiny rivulets of water trickled down the walls of the cellar.

No one spoke. Not a word.

Then, we heard crashing sounds and a loud noise like a freight-train whistle. It was the wailing of the tornado itself, and it was gettin’ closer. Way too close.

The cellar door began to rattle, and Daddy yelled for my sister Opal to help pull on the chain to keep the door closed. She could not find any gloves. Momma took off the apron she wore and I grabbed Jackson’s extra diaper. We handed them to Opal, who wadded up the apron and diaper to put between her hands and the chain.

We may have been in the cellar for twenty minutes, but it seemed much longer, before the sounds stopped.

No rain. No hail. No wind.

The silence was as deafening as the tornado’s roar had been.

Suddenly, Molly yelled, “I can’t hear!” But of course, she could hear. We all could, and that was a huge relief. We laughed at Molly. Then she joined us, and we all laughed together.

The tornado had passed.

Daddy made us all wait another five minutes. He wanted to be sure we were safe before venturing from the cellar.

Finally, Daddy opened the door a crack and looked outside. “Well,” he said as he opened the door, “we still have a house. Your door is still closed.” He winked at Momma. “But the porch is gone.”

When we all emerged from the cellar, cousins Eva and Molly saw my aunt and uncle slopping through puddles and dodging bits of lumber, tree limbs, and trash to get to their girls.

The storm tore the porch off of the house, turned it upside down, and dumped it in a pile a few feet from the house.

The tornado had lifted the chicken coup from its foundation and set it back down in one piece on the other side of the yard. Some of the chickens survived their trip and were already exploring the new-to-them territory.

The field to the south of us no longer had rows. The tornado and rain flattened it. The recently planted seeds were swept away by the torrent. Debris was everywhere, and we had a mess to clean up.

The clouds were moving away from us, and the sky was soon a clear blue.

Our family was safe, and that was what mattered most.

For years after this happened, Daddy and I refused to wear shirts, sweaters, or anything else that went over our heads to get them on.

Even though I tried to avoid tornados, I was affected by two more of them. Both were in Texas. One Easter weekend, a tornado touched down on my in-laws’ family farm near Littlefield. Our large gathering of family laid low in the cellar under their house. In 1970, a massive tornado created a wide path of destruction in Lubbock, where it flew over the university but wrecked the area where my daughter lived. Thank God, my family members were safe and unharmed, both times.