A Dad From the old School

If you read my last story, Guardian of the Dead, you will appreciate this. We had college students out to our house last night. Afterwards, we had a campfire. Most all of them had read the story, and a couple of the guys, to impress the girls, I guess, volunteered to go up into the tree house. The rest of us stayed by the fire. As they entered the first floor, one of the guys saw his name written on the wall, and that unnerved him a bit. Actually, he had the same name as my grandson, who had written his name there long ago, so that was an accidental effect. Then I cut a 20 pound test monofilament line out at the campfire, dropping a 10 pound window weight in the second floor. Those screams were music to my ears! Just what I had designed the story for in the  first place! I still can't believe it! After two years, It really, actually, WORKED! I have been smiling all day!
*******************
     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. I totally forgot about the awnings. 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 something like, “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 of 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.