November Wind

In the fall of 1971, my father-in-law suffered a serious farm injury which left him unable to take care for the livestock. To help, my husband moved us into a mobile home down the road from their house. At the time, we were still naïve enough to think we were indestructible, so when a November wind brought unseasonably warm temperatures, we didn’t think about our home being unsafe.

Thunder woke us around two o’clock in the morning. Continuous flashes of lightening lit up the night sky. A soccer ball sped down the driveway, while two lawn chairs danced across the lawn, down a hill and out of sight. We looked at each other, knowing this storm shouldn’t be ignored, yet we didn’t know what to do. We hurried down the hallway to the living room, where my brother was spending the night on the sofa.

The three of us considered driving to the neighbor’s house or finding a ditch, wasn’t that what all the experts advised? Instead, we trusted the storm to miss us. Not more than a minute later, the whole structure came alive, swaying back and forth, rocking up and down, even the walls sucked in and popped out. The lights flickered, went off, came back on again, and then stayed off. We huddled together in the darkness to ride out the storm.

The wind shifted from a howl to the train-like roar often associated with tornadoes. The floor beneath us seemed to rise up and sink, rhythmically matching the pop and crack of the wall’s in and out motion. Fear escalated from trembling hands to a full body shake, even my teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Each click of the second hand seemed like an hour. Would the anchors hold, or would we find ourselves scattered across the corn field? I prayed for the former.

The rocking slowed, the walls stilled, the storm passed. We were safe, yet we remained motionless, as if waiting for the storm to return this time to claim us for its own. My brother was the first to speak, “It’s over.” Those two simple words brought a collective sigh of relief.

The guys searched through the darkness for a flashlight. A full inspection revealed minor damage. The front stoop had blown a few feet away and the chain on the storm door was broken. We knew we were lucky, but not how lucky until daylight.

Evidenced by the wide swath of uprooted trees, the tornado’s path was a mere fifty yards to the east of us. We took a drive through the area to see how our neighbors fared. Our relatives were safe, so we continued toward the main road. We stopped at the stop sign, trying to decide which way to turn when we realized something was missing. The church that had stood there for the past seventy-five years was gone. It had disappeared, imploded into the basement.

A few miles farther south, the tiny town of Hidalgo suffered extensive damage. Houses destroyed, trees uprooted, even cars were overturned. The tornado was one of the worst to ever hit the area. We heard story after story of survival. One man told us he had just carried his daughter out of her room when that part of the house blew away. Incredibly, there were no casualties.

Older and wiser now, when November winds blow unseasonably warm, I’m prepared. I grab the cell phone and head for a designated part of the basement, where I keep a disaster kit. No harm in being prepared.

Story ID:	3199
Written by:	Betty (BJ) Roan (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Family History
Writers Conference:	$500 2007 Family Memories Writing Project
Location:	Greenup IL USA
Year:	1971