Forever A Hillbilly: Part two - The Arkadelphia Tornado

Forever A Hillbilly: Part two - The Arkadelphia Tornado:      I tried a couple of times to reach Kinley, but I got a busy signal. I headed that way. When I got to the door, I saw a bright, sunny...

Part two - The Arkadelphia Tornado

     I tried a couple of times to reach Kinley, but I got a busy signal. I headed that way. When I got to the door, I saw a bright, sunny day outside. But Arkadelphia was pink. The town was covered with pink insulation. The trailer was also on my car out front, and the front door was a hard squeeze. A car in the street had a ton of bricks on top of it, but I could see nobody inside. I just cannot describe the town, and do it justice. Buildings everywhere were in rubble. Dazed, silent people were beginning to emerge. Screams from trapped individuals were coming from all directions. A couple of hundred yards down the street, the large brick shoestore was just a pile of rubble in the street, and amazingly, people were beginning to emerge from the rubble. I headed down the street toward Kinley's house.

     Half a mile down the street when the tornado hit, Kinley was still in her closet, sitting cross legged on the floor, Spankey in her lap, a pillow on her head. Only that small portion of her wooden house she was in remained on the site. The rest, except for scraps here and there, was blown to who knows where. As the old, very heavy wooden walls collapsed on Kinley, and old chimney that we knew nothing about, that was in that wall fell apart, bricks raining on her head, which was covered by her pillow. A large chunk of the chimney fell beside her, and as the walls fell on her, forcing her face into the dirt, that chunk of the brick chimney held a small portion up slightly, just enough. As her adrenalin rush hit, she was able to rise up slightly. A woman she didn't know helped dig her out. The first thing she saw in her yard was our business sign, Barbara's Photography. She headed up to the studio, accompanied by the woman who helped her, And Spankey.

 When I got a couple of blocks down the street, I saw her. She was coming up the street, Spanky in her arms, being escorted by an Angel. No, I'm not speaking figuratively, I'm dead serious. This woman beside her had, I later found out, helped dig her out. She had told Kinley she lived across the street, but neither of us had ever seen her before. As Kinley and I ran to each other, hugged and cried, the Angel was smiling. We looked around, and she was gone. We've never seen her again. To Kinley and I, she will forever be her Angel.

     Kinley seemed to be all right, and so was Spanky. I led her to a clear space in the street, and told her to not dare move from that spot. I had to try and help some of the screaming, trapped people.

     I found a wrecked building with a woman inside. I talked to her. Yes, she was OK, but could not get out. I heard a scream nearby, different from the others. It was filled with total agony. I  found out later it came from a young man who had just found his mother's body.

     As I started moving boards, to try to help this trapped woman, a strange thing happened. A squad of fully dressed National Guardsmen, complete with camo on their faces, moved into my area. How could they be here already? We were 10 minutes into this thing, yet here they were. I later learned they were returning from a drill, and had to take cover on the edge of the tornado, just as it hit. Anyway, their leader told me to step aside, they would get the woman out. They formed a line, and started moving the boards, one by one. Later, I never had a chance to tell the trapped woman that I didn't just desert her. I've always felt bad about that. As I worked my way back toward Kinley, I saw a man. A merchant. He had cleared out a little spot beside his door, and was standing fast. He was later declared  one of the heroes of the tornado, and maybe he was. I only saw him for a moment, and no telling how many people he rescued before or later. But when I saw him, at that moment  in time, he was just guarding his stuff.

     The alarms were going off at all the banks. I never knew if any unofficial withdrawals were made that day, but I do know of  hundred dollar bills being found nearby.

     When I got back to Kinley, the excitement was beginning to wear off, and she was not feeling good. I had to find help. I saw a police car in the distance, finally got him as close to Kinley as I could, and loaded her aboard.  He said he would take her to the hospital. She was finally moved on to Hot Springs, because our hospital was overflowing. I later caught it, full force, from wife Barbara, for not going with her. I should have. But I reasoned at the time I was needed more here.

     Walking up the street, I saw a strange thing. A unit of national guardsmen were marching down the streeet, in perfect order. At each intersection, the leader halted them, one went forward into the intersection, and held up his hand. First up the street, then down, to halt traffic. Well, the streets were full of wreckage, and there would be no traffic on them that day. Oh well, I guess if you ain't got discipline, you ain't got nothin'.

      A renter, in one of my duplexes a mile away, called me. The front half of the building had been smashed to the floor. His mama was having a heart attack, and the lady from next door was out in the street, wandering about. I told him I was afoot, and could not get there. Call 911.

     After a very long time, it seemed to me, rescue people began to arrive, and take over. I realize now, they got there very quickly, everything considered. But it seemed like forever at the time. I had no idea of the scope of this thing. Help was needed all over.

     The police moved in, full force, and secured the buildings. I talked an officer into letting me go into our building and  get our cameras and money, while he watched me like a hawk. About that time, Barbara and son Corey were arrriving. They told me Kinley had been moved to Hot Springs. Her back was injured. Since she was sitting cross legged, indian style, the doc said if she had been pushed down another couple of inches, it would have done her in. The large chunk of chimney, holding the walls up a little, saved her.The monster F-4 had to be at least a half mile wide. We went to where Kinley was.

     The next day, it was raining. Mrs. Lois Barksdale, Mickey's Grandmother, along with my family, had mobilized a crew to help salvage what was left at their house. The town was shut down, tighter than a drum. We need in, but only rescue personell were allowed. I found an old Red Cross shirt, and led our caravan to the roadblock. "They're with me," I told the cop. He looked at my Red Cross shirt, and waved us in. Sometimes, you just do what you gotta do.

CONTINUED - Thanks for your time, and your attention.

Forever A Hillbilly: Arkadelphia Tornado of 1997

Forever A Hillbilly: Arkadelphia Tornado of 1997:      The big day for the OBU Father-Son Golf Tournament had arrived. Corey, my son, the OBU grad, the skilled golfer, and I, the novi...

Arkadelphia Tornado of 1997

     The big day for the OBU Father-Son Golf Tournament had arrived. Corey, my son, the OBU grad, the skilled golfer, and I, the novice, were entered as a team. Not "novice," as in beginner, but the eternal type, as in no good.

     We struggled through a dark, rainy morning. Fortunately, everyone else struggled too.It was March 1, 1997. A date seared into my brain forever. Not because it was the date I finally amazed everyone by suddenly becoming a good golfer. That didn't happen. Not by a long shot. Or by a short chipshot, or even by a putt. Not because Corey once again played well, which he did, Well enough to carry me to something close enough to victory to win us both a large umbrella. It is because weather straight from hell was on the way, weather that these umbrellas could not touch.

     After lunch, bad weather predictions were coming in. I went down to our photography studio in downtown Arkadelphia. The tornado sirens started going off. I called daughter Kinley. She was in her house, half a mile down Main street, already taking cover. Kinley has always had an unnatural fear of tornadoes. It had became a family joke. We said, "Kinley, think about it. How many people ever get hit by a tornado? What are the odds?" Still, she was always in a hidey hole at the first hint of a bad storm.

     She told me she already had it figured out. In an interior closet, on the floor, her little dog Spanky in her lap, a pillow over her head. I told her that seemed about as good as any place.

     I went outside. The sirens had stopped, then they started again, along with the report that a large tornado was on the way, scheduled to hit Arkadelphia at 2:20 PM. It was now 2:10. The electricity went off. I wondered for years if it went off because the coming storm hit a line somewhere, or because someone, somewhere, threw a switch, knowing what was about to happen to Arkadelphia, and what hot power lines could mean in the aftermath. Jim Burns, our Emergency Services Director,  recently filled me in. The lines went down west of town, probably about the time he was getting help from Gurdon firemen clearing out his truck from downed trees so he could rush to town.

     I went in and got our best camera, a Hasselblad. I loaded it, because if a tornado was about to hit, I wanted a good picture of it. I was standing on the sidewalk next to my door, and a man from the Honeycomb restaurant next door was beside me. At 2:15 we beagn to hear a loud roar in the west. "Sounds like a train." he said. "No tracks over there," I replied.  The noise increased, and he went inside. I readied my camera. Then a very strange thing happened. Clouds, from all over the sky, started rushing toward a single point, the point of the sound. I decided this thing might be about to form up right on top of me, and it was time to go inside.

      I was playing chicken with an F-4, and I blinked.

      I could not see anything that looked like a tornado, but I snapped a picture any way, and went inside. That would be my last picture for weeks. Afterwards, I could never justify to myself worrying about pictures, when so many people needed help. I don't have a single picture from that time.

     The dressing room, in the middle of the building, looked like the best place. Just as I started in, the wind really picked up. "Aw, man, my awning is blowing away." Then a house trailer, or what was left of it, mostly the frame, came through the front picture window. The back windows of the building were sucked in, the suspended ceiling around me was sucked down to the floor, and the two swinging doors behind me slammed with a loud bang. I went in the dressing room, lay the 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 have ever heard, as my front brick wall, three bricks thick, moved farward a few inches at the top.

     I waited a few moments to make sure this was all over with, then I headed for the phone to call my daughter Kinley. I was  relieved for her. The tornado was moving across the street, I got hit full force, so I felt like there was no way it could have hit her too, half a mile away. Little did I know.

      Just as I picked it up, it rang. It was my brother, Harry, saying he had just heard that downtown Arkadelphia was just blown off the map, and I told him I was OK, but now I had to call Kinley. He hung up, and I was thinking,  we're OK, but he won't be OK. Harry was worrying about me, and  he was dying of Cancer. Before our lives and our business was put back together from this, he would be dead.   CONTINUED, FIVE DAYS.  THANKS FOR READING.

Forever A Hillbilly: On Being Classy ---

Forever A Hillbilly: On Being Classy ---:      Some time ago, I wrote a story about a friend of mine. When describing his wife, the first description that came to mind was “very cla...

On Being Classy ---

     Some time ago, I wrote a story about a friend of mine. When describing his wife, the first description that came to mind was “very classy.” Later, at his funeral, the pastor’s first descriptive words about his wife was, “A very classy lady.”

     What is it about some people that just seems to bring the word “classy” to mind? What is it about some people that lets us know they have it? That experience seems to have gotten that question rolling around in my head a lot, while I’m thinking. I’m very good at thinking, especially when you just consider the sheer volume of it. Not necessarily quality thinking, not necessarily very productive thinking. Just thinking.

     Are there descriptive words out there that are so anti-classy, that, if they truly apply to the person in question, rule out any possibility of being classy? To me, some of those words would be snobby, gossipy, unkind, rude, selfish, self-centered, prideful, boastful, vengeful, vulgar, intentionally too loud, (physical limitations, such as not hearing well, don’t count here.) braggart, and shallow. Like I say, this is just my list. Yours may be very different, yet better. Or worse.

     Are there single, descriptive words out there that, if accurately applied, would prove that classy fits? I seem to have a problem with this question. Perfect will not work, because none of us are perfect, yet some are classy. Flawless? That implies perfect. So it would follow that we may have a few minor flaws, yet still be classy. What type of flaws would be allowed? Could it be that only minor flaws that do no harm to others would work? I tend to think so. There seems to be so many factors out there that go into making up a classy person, that no single word or short description can work, alone.

     Physical traits: While physical traits may be our first indicators, such as how we carry ourselves, how friendly we are, our posture, how we choose our clothes, how neat we are, how clean we are, etc. may get us tentatively in the right group initially, the core of it must come from within. We can’t keep that hidden forever.   And, our station in life we are born into can limit these outside appearances. When we were in the middle of the second largest and worst slum in the world  (Kibera, in Kenya) a little girl who I remember as being around ten years old ran out into our path. She smiled, and said “Hi! How are you?” Her clothes were rags, just hanging on her body, but class stood out all over that girl. Barbara and I both wanted to just take her hand and take her home with us, away from that place.

     Can one learn to be classy? Some people say no. You have to be born with it.  Many of us are so far away from being classy, it’s hard to imagine ever climbing up that far, and we may try and try and never succeed. On the other hand, I’m repulsed by the idea that any of us can be born into a situation, so deep in any hole, that we cannot ever climb out of it, no matter how hard we work. I tend to think yes. With hard work, we can learn to be classy.

I think regional dialects have no place here. We learn to talk like people we live among. Many people tend to look down upon others who do not talk like they talk. I, for example, know a ton of classy hillbilly’s. Those who look down upon hillbilly slang are shallow people, to my way of thinking. Other shallow people may judge by body build, weight or height. I tend to think physical characteristics of the body one is born with is not a limiting factor.

     A classy person, generally, just “has it together.” We know they are not about to just lose it in the middle of a conversation, and say something stupid.

     A classy person is a good listener. Never quick to interrupt, or talk over another person. This whole statement smacks me right in the face. I’m too busy thinking of my reply, or my next statement, to fully listen to another. I need to work on this one. The more I write on this subject, the more I begin to realize where I fit in. So, can thinking too much rule me out? Maybe so, If I can’t climb out of that hole. And I’m an old man. Don’t have a lot of time to waste.

 The “smirk” is a habit that we should be very careful with, especially for a smart person. It can easily convey the message, “I’m smarter than you.”

 I have a friend who is very smart. He pretty well always has the correct answer. But he usually starts his correction with, “Well, it COULD be that - -“

     When he does that, I just automatically know he’s about to tell me a truth I can count on, take to the bank. A humble preface to a truth conveyed by a very intelligent, classy person. Some people, however, do not respond well to his gentle approach. He and I were once in a van traveling from New Orleans. The driver seemed to think his sense of direction was superior to others. When the driver passed the proper exit, my friend softly stated, “It could be we should have taken that exit.” The driver paid no attention. We passed another exit. “We may very well have missed our turnoff.” No response. Approaching the next exit, “Turn this durned thing around!! You missed the road!” This time, the driver responded properly. He had just not had it explained to him in those terms before.
      Some people enter a room, and everything about them says, “I’m here! Look at me!” While other people enter a room and everything about them says, “Hello. How are you?” Guess who fits where.

 So what have I accomplished with this column? In the end, very little. Food for thought, and that’s about it. I have never worried about being classy, myself, possibly because I normally do not occupy a position up at the top, looking down; I seem to spend a lot of time at the bottom, looking up. But I’m me, and I just love me, even if it turns out that, in the end, I’m in a small minority.

 A classy person would be very hesitant to put others into a judgmental position in any conversation. So, if we meet on the street, and you ask, “What about me? Am I classy?” Chances are, I would just look at you, smirk, and answer, “I’m far too classy to answer that.” Then you’ll know.

**

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Forever A Hillbilly: France, then Home

Forever A Hillbilly: France, then Home:      Avignon is a unique city. Walled, from ancient times, but modern, too. Seven Popes resided here from 1309 to 1376, when things got ...