On March 1, 1997, at 2:20 PM, an F4 tornado ravaged much of
my home town of Arkadelphia, Arkansas.
The tornado sirens
started at 2:10, and word was spreading that a large tornado was on the way. I
went outside our photography studio in downtown Arkadelphia, with our best
camera. If we were about to be hit, I wanted a photo. A very dark, ominous
cloud was moving in from the west. The sirens stopped. At 2:15, they started
again, and the downtown electricity went off. A man from next door was beside
me. A roar was coming from the west. “Sounds like a train,” he said. “No tracks
over there,” I answered. He went inside. I readied my camera. Suddenly, a
strange thing happened. Clouds from all over the sky began rushing toward one
central point, the point of the roar. I realized this thing might be about to
form up right over me. I snapped a shot of the clouds, and went inside. It was
my last picture for weeks. I could never justify taking pictures when so many
people needed help. I was playing chicken with an F4, and I blinked.
The dressing
room, right in the middle of our building, a very old two story brick, looked
like the best place. As I started inside it, the wind picked up. I looked
toward the front. “Aw dang, my awnings are blowing away,” I thought. Then a
large trailer house, or what was left of it, mostly the frame, came through our
front picture window. The back windows collapsed inward, the suspended ceiling
around me was sucked down to the floor, and double swinging doors right behind
me slammed shut with a bang. I went in the dressing room, shut the door, lay
our best camera on the floor, and covered it with my body. My thought processes
ran, “We’ve got to have something left to make a living with when this is all over.”
I heard the most awful groaning sound I had ever heard as our front wall, three
bricks thick, was pushed outward several inches at the top.
I could write for
days about the aftermath during the next weeks, but right now I want to pick
out one small part of it, one little
story out of an entire storybook, and tell you about it. I still think of it
often.
A very old rental
property, two blocks away, was right on the edge of the tornado. It was my
worst looking rent house. Insurance adjusters took one look at it after the
tornado, and brought me a check for the total loss of the house. But actually,
It really didn’t look that bad, compared to the neighborhood. It had been
transformed from being the worst looking house in the neighborhood to being one
of the best, in only seconds. All houses
right across the street were flattened to the ground. I decided to repair it
myself, which included putting on about six squares of shingles, replace 17
windows, getting a bunch of little trees off the top, and replacing the
electrical service.
One day as I sat
working on top of that house, I looked across at the neighbors. A young man,
two young children and his wife had totally lost their house. His father also
owned two small houses next to it, and they were totally flattened also. The
young man told me, “This was to be my inheritance.” As I watched, they started
pulling out each plank, pulling the nails, and stacking them neatly. Even the
young children worked hard, long hours. Day after day they worked. His dad came
to town, and I could see they planned to rebuild that house totally by
themselves. After a week or so had passed, as I watched them all labor from
daylight to dark, even the young children, I was filled with admiration for
that family. After a few more days, my house was finished and rented, and I
went over to see the Dad. I asked if I could help them. The dad, whom I could
tell was of the old school, was nor unfriendly, but he said, “As sure as
shootin,’ if I start letting people help, they’ll get hurt, and the next thing
you know, they’ll be suing me. Thanks, but we can handle it.”
I continued to
watch them struggle for several more days. I could follow their progress from
our business window. They had the walls up, ready to put the roof on, but no
plywood was to be had in Arkadelphia. It was all used up. They were in a tight,
and heavy rains were forecast soon. I again walked over to the old dad. “Hey,
I’ve got quite a bit of plywood stored in one of my storage buildings. Tell you
what. If you will let me help put it on, I’ll give you that plywood.” The Dad
looked at me, thinking. Then he frowned. “I appreciate the offer, but I just
can’t risk having someone outside the family gettin’ up there, falling and
hurtin’ themselves, then I’ll be sued.
“Look”, I said. I’ve built three houses by myself, almost. I’ve been
workin’ on these 18 rent houses for years and never been hurt. I wouldn’t get
hurt here, and if I did, I sure wouldn’t sue you.”
The Dad was in a
tight. He thought about it for a long time. Finally, he grudgingly agreed,
turned around, and walked away muttering about “gettin’ my pants sued off.” We hauled
the plywood in from my storage building 3 blocks away, I took a sheet up on
top, drove one nail, and my foot slipped, only about 3 inches down to a lower
2x4, but my sometimes trick knee picked a bad time to give way, and when all my
weight came down on the toes of one foot, something really bad went wrong with
my foot. I tried to fake it for a while, knowing the dad was keeping an eagle
eye on me, but I couldn’t go on. I climbed slowly down the ladder, told the dad
I had to go run an errand. He was frowning at me, and I knew he was not buying
what I was saying, me limping like I was. I knew full well he thought I was
headed for my lawyer’s office.
I went to the
emergency room. The verdict was, my big toe was dislocated. The doc came in.
Now, I’ve got to tell you. I had been wearing these work tennis shoes for days
now. And they, my socks, and my feet smelled really ripe. He gave me a shot in
the toe, said that will numb it in five minutes. Then, I guess he just could
not stand that smell any more, because he grabbed my big toe, and jerked it as
hard as he could. I thought about screaming.
I drove back out
to the job site. I had to go fess up to the dad, who was really looking at me
hard by now. I knew I would not be able to climb a ladder for a long time. I
watched them continue to labor long and hard. When they were working on the
inside part, I guess the dad was softening a little, having dodged one lawsuit
bullet, because a whole team on Mennonite volunteers moved in from up north to
help Arkadelphia, and he allowed them in to help finish up. Just as they drove
the last nail, and the house was complete, the city decided to take that land
and build the new city hall building, so it was immediately torn down again.
But when the city takes land, I hear they pay for it by the square foot, which
means through the nose, so I guess the hard working family came out all right,
money wise. I never did know their names, or what happened to them. But I often
think of that family, and their hard case dad, (who reminded me of my own dad)
with a smile and a lot of respect.
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