Terrible Tuesday
We pulled into Wichita Falls, Texas, in early April of 1979, ready to settle into our brand new home located off Southwest Parkway. We closed escrow early on Monday, April 9th, and took our daughters on a ride to see the house. Our older daughter was about to enter kindergarten, so we drove by the school and, of course, the local parks. At the entrance to our subdivision was a driving range and the advertisement for it was an enormous golf ball set upon a ten foot high tee. The girls were fascinated by it as we stopped to watch golfers practicing their swings. Also close by were the bank in which we'd just put all our money, a fabric store, a grocery store and an ice cream shop. Farish family staples.
There was a moving company driver making his way to our home that day, too. I'd convinced him (begged and pleaded...) to get there on Tuesday. He'd wanted to make our furniture delivery day Thursday, but he was nice enough to accommodate my request. Everything was in order for us to wave good-bye to motel living and enjoy our spacious new place. Four bedrooms this time. A big yard. Open concept. Great neighborhood. I'd soon be making fresh bread and steamed veggies for my family again and the motel downtown next door to the Wendy's would be in the rear view mirror.
Monday afternoon, with keys freshly in hand, we opened the door to our place. While the girls ran around in the house and the yard, we met the couple next door, in the late sixties, caring for an elderly parent. Late in the afternoon, as clouds began to form in thick dark pretense, we loaded our family into the Cutlass and headed back to the motel. The clouds, however, gathered with such ferocity they outran us. By the time we reached the Wendy's drive-thru to order dinner, the sky was an ominous greenish black and plumes of clouds circled around like fingers swirling a whirlpool to life. Then the sirens went off, blaring an emergency warning that shrieked so loudly the girls put their hands over their ears. "Get inside now!" screamed the teenager at the drive-thru window. "Leave your car here and get inside! That's a tornado warning!"
We scrambled from the car, ran into the restaurant and headed toward the freezing meat locker where all the customers and employees were being corralled. I hung back a moment and turned to look out the window in time to see a massive funnel swirling down on the part of town we'd just left. "Get in here, Kay!" Bill pulled me in and the door was shut.
It seemed forever until the clarion call of the sirens screeched the All Clear and we were herded out of the dark, cold shelter. The motel was very close to the hospital, so while life on the inside of the Wendy's carried on as usual, and Bill and the girls ate their pre-ordered hamburgers, I stood by the big windows and watched pick-ups and ambulances race by on their way to the hospital carrying the wounded. It would be nightfall before we'd know the extent of the damage and not for a couple of days before we'd know how many deaths. Here is a link to a YouTube video made about the tornado:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bKDQTPt22w
By seven o'clock that night, the motel was overflowing with people who'd lost their homes. Curious, I walked around the parking lot speaking with some of them. The southwest portion of the city had taken the biggest hit. There were no street lights, no gas or electricity, and, most significantly, no homes left. They'd been shaved from their foundations and taken, airborne, to heaven only knows where.
"Bill, we have to go see if we have a house left!" I was desperate to know. "And what about the moving van driver? What if he didn't make it?" I was ruing the fact I'd ask him to come early. Our stuff wasn't worth his death. We'd already learned that many semis on Highway 287, leading into Wichita Falls, were lifted up by the funnel cloud and thrown back to the pavement as if they were toys.
I need closure like I need food, so eventually I convinced Bill to load us up and take us to our home. Police cars lined Southwest Parkway and the only way we got through was proving to them we had a home to check on. It felt like Armageddon: no lights, eerie darkness, silent devastation after a monster has stomped through, randomly destroying anything in its way. Where there had been homes that afternoon, there was nothing. Just concrete foundations, still wet from the rain, glowing in the moonlight like headstones in a cemetery. We turned down our street, void of the new homes with their spindly new red oaks and newly planted flowers. My stomach went sick. "It's gone, Bill," I sighed.
"Just wait, Kay," said Bill, ever the optimist. "Just wait." And we drove a little further to see shapes in the distant, outlined by the car's headlights. "I think that's our house," he said, hesitatingly. "I think we are okay."
It's a lot to take in. There was the absolute joy of seeing our new home still standing, though we didn't go in to see what might have been damaged. My body shook and I began to cry...and not just from the gratitude of what had been saved for us, but also for the loss of those around us that I wouldn't even realize until morning. Relief and grief, all mixed and churning in my heart.
I ran next door to the older couple we'd met. They'd gotten in their car to outrun the tornado. A huge mistake. Of the 45 deaths that day, 25 were in their cars...and 11 of those had homes that weren't touched by the storm. They were lucky. Back home and safe.
The concern then was the moving van driver. Was he okay? There were no cell phones back then, and the land lines in the city were not functioning. The van driver had only one number: Bill's work phone. How were we going to connect?
To Be Continued.....
Bottom Line: Anything can happen...and does.
There was a moving company driver making his way to our home that day, too. I'd convinced him (begged and pleaded...) to get there on Tuesday. He'd wanted to make our furniture delivery day Thursday, but he was nice enough to accommodate my request. Everything was in order for us to wave good-bye to motel living and enjoy our spacious new place. Four bedrooms this time. A big yard. Open concept. Great neighborhood. I'd soon be making fresh bread and steamed veggies for my family again and the motel downtown next door to the Wendy's would be in the rear view mirror.
Monday afternoon, with keys freshly in hand, we opened the door to our place. While the girls ran around in the house and the yard, we met the couple next door, in the late sixties, caring for an elderly parent. Late in the afternoon, as clouds began to form in thick dark pretense, we loaded our family into the Cutlass and headed back to the motel. The clouds, however, gathered with such ferocity they outran us. By the time we reached the Wendy's drive-thru to order dinner, the sky was an ominous greenish black and plumes of clouds circled around like fingers swirling a whirlpool to life. Then the sirens went off, blaring an emergency warning that shrieked so loudly the girls put their hands over their ears. "Get inside now!" screamed the teenager at the drive-thru window. "Leave your car here and get inside! That's a tornado warning!"
We scrambled from the car, ran into the restaurant and headed toward the freezing meat locker where all the customers and employees were being corralled. I hung back a moment and turned to look out the window in time to see a massive funnel swirling down on the part of town we'd just left. "Get in here, Kay!" Bill pulled me in and the door was shut.
It seemed forever until the clarion call of the sirens screeched the All Clear and we were herded out of the dark, cold shelter. The motel was very close to the hospital, so while life on the inside of the Wendy's carried on as usual, and Bill and the girls ate their pre-ordered hamburgers, I stood by the big windows and watched pick-ups and ambulances race by on their way to the hospital carrying the wounded. It would be nightfall before we'd know the extent of the damage and not for a couple of days before we'd know how many deaths. Here is a link to a YouTube video made about the tornado:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bKDQTPt22w
By seven o'clock that night, the motel was overflowing with people who'd lost their homes. Curious, I walked around the parking lot speaking with some of them. The southwest portion of the city had taken the biggest hit. There were no street lights, no gas or electricity, and, most significantly, no homes left. They'd been shaved from their foundations and taken, airborne, to heaven only knows where.
"Bill, we have to go see if we have a house left!" I was desperate to know. "And what about the moving van driver? What if he didn't make it?" I was ruing the fact I'd ask him to come early. Our stuff wasn't worth his death. We'd already learned that many semis on Highway 287, leading into Wichita Falls, were lifted up by the funnel cloud and thrown back to the pavement as if they were toys.
I need closure like I need food, so eventually I convinced Bill to load us up and take us to our home. Police cars lined Southwest Parkway and the only way we got through was proving to them we had a home to check on. It felt like Armageddon: no lights, eerie darkness, silent devastation after a monster has stomped through, randomly destroying anything in its way. Where there had been homes that afternoon, there was nothing. Just concrete foundations, still wet from the rain, glowing in the moonlight like headstones in a cemetery. We turned down our street, void of the new homes with their spindly new red oaks and newly planted flowers. My stomach went sick. "It's gone, Bill," I sighed.
"Just wait, Kay," said Bill, ever the optimist. "Just wait." And we drove a little further to see shapes in the distant, outlined by the car's headlights. "I think that's our house," he said, hesitatingly. "I think we are okay."
It's a lot to take in. There was the absolute joy of seeing our new home still standing, though we didn't go in to see what might have been damaged. My body shook and I began to cry...and not just from the gratitude of what had been saved for us, but also for the loss of those around us that I wouldn't even realize until morning. Relief and grief, all mixed and churning in my heart.
I ran next door to the older couple we'd met. They'd gotten in their car to outrun the tornado. A huge mistake. Of the 45 deaths that day, 25 were in their cars...and 11 of those had homes that weren't touched by the storm. They were lucky. Back home and safe.
The concern then was the moving van driver. Was he okay? There were no cell phones back then, and the land lines in the city were not functioning. The van driver had only one number: Bill's work phone. How were we going to connect?
To Be Continued.....
Bottom Line: Anything can happen...and does.
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