RRN Online Volume 245

March 03 '01

Volume 245

Pontotoc Tornado Nightmarish Night

Sitting in the 11:00 a.m. Swept Away worship service last Sunday, I listened and watched attentively as the minister of music asked for a show of hands of those who had ever been yanked from a warm bed in the middle of the night and carted off to a storm cellar or other shelter. The half-the-normal sized congregation responded with a large number answering with a raised hand. He remembered how his grandmother, who had lived through a deadly tornado, insisted on his family finding safe shelter in stormy weather.

Not everyone who survives a natural disaster reacts similarly, but I imagine those most adversely affected are the ones most skittish when weather conditions threaten. My mother was horrified of storms and tornadoes, but we did not have a storm house. Instead of our being taken to a storm house, Mom preferred to gather us into a single room. The only logic I ever found in her tactic was if we were about to be blown away, then we'd all go together. Somehow, "leaving a few for seed" was not part of her philosophy.

The last house Mom lived in is where my younger brother now lives. It had a "root cellar" beneath it, but Mom had no desire to head toward the cellar during threatening weather, because she reasoned the house might fall in on her, or worse, trap her under a pile of burning rubble. Yet, when reports of a tornado near the Randolph community southwest of Pontotoc were sounded last Saturday night, my brother took his family to the root cellar. Mom's sole surviving sister, Aunt Jo, lives next to my brother, but she could not be coaxed into the cellar.

Instead, Aunt Jo responded, "I'm going to stay right here (double wide mobile home). If it's the Lord's will for me to get blown away, then I'll get blown away, but I'm not going anywhere."

I don't have a problem with folks choosing to trust in God to see them through a storm, but I always think about the hypothetical analogy that follows:

A man was warned that his home was in danger of being flooded. As the water' covered the ground outside his house, policemen came to him and asked him to evacuate the premises.

"I'm trusting in the Lord to look after me!" he confidently replied.

When the waters rose inside his house and an emergency crew came to rescue him by boat he waved them on, claiming, "No thanks, I'm trusting in the Lord to rescue me."

The next day, floodwaters had consumed his house, but he had climbed onto the roof to save himself.

A National Guard helicopter came by, and as they dropped a rope and harness to rescue him, he motioned them away, saying, "The Lord has promised to care of me."

When floodwaters rose still higher, the man drowned.

Upon arriving inside the Pearly Gates of Heaven he implored of the Lord, "I can't believe it. I trusted you to save me. Why did you let me drown?"

The Lord responded, "I tried to save you. I sent the police to your house to warn you, then later I sent an emergency crew in a boat, and finally I had the National Guard in a helicopter trying to help you, but you didn't accept any of my offers."

I'm not sure what everybody else gets out of the story, but I understand it to mean that God expects those of us who entrust our well-being into His hands to accept some responsibility for the outcome of our situation and to be open to His ever-present guidance. Thus, I look upon God's will in a similar fashion. I figure God leaves part of His will up to us, and He expects us to use the good sense He gave us to help in keeping His will for us.

Many persons who were forewarned of the tornado that struck Pontotoc around 10:00 p.m. on February 23^rd were wise in getting inside an interior room, such as a bathroom, in their home. A few owe their life to doing just that, while others were less fortunate.

The deadly event passed within a mile of our house in Dogwood Circle, without me having a clue it was nearby. My TV was tuned into the local news, and I was aware of the weather's stormy activity, but I did not go to an interior room because I had kept an eye on the southwestern sky and saw nothing out of the ordinary. I did not hear the "freight train noise" many use to describe a passing tornado and was talking to Aunt Jo on the phone at the time the tornado warning siren began its eerie blasts. Aunt Jo said she could hear the siren, but I couldn't.

Five minutes later our power and most of the power in the city was shut off. The resultant quiet was discomforting, as the storm ceased its winds and rains. With my trusty flashlight, I stepped into the darkness of my driveway, and listened as the sirens of emergency vehicles made their way to different neighborhoods. I remember thinking a tree must have knocked down a power line, and that police were needed to divert traffic.

Of course it was shallow thinking on my part, but having no knowledge of something worse having happened, I soon shut down my battery powered computer, blew out all the candles, and went to bed, knowing that when the power came back on, I'd be awakened by all the lights coming on that I did not get turned off properly. Sure enough, within the next hour and a half, I was up, turning off lights.

Lillie Belle called me at six-thirty Sunday morning to let me know the nursing home had kept her and others huddled in the hallway till midnight and that the hospital had treated a large number of people for injuries. Still half asleep, I thanked her for the information and tried to finish my night's nap. Shortly, before eight o'clock, the woman that cleans our house every other week called to ask if our house was damaged by the tornado. When she explained that a nearby neighborhood had been ravaged and that several people were dead, I figured it was time to check out the area.

I threw on enough clothes to get in my car and drive down south Main Street to see first-hand the devastation of the storm. Young's Laundromat and Car Wash appeared to be untouched, but just east and south of the business damage was evident. A quarter-mile further, at the intersection of Hwy. 15 and Hwy. 41, Dot Kidd's business was demolished, trees in every direction were broken, twisted, or uprooted and the hillsides to the south/ southwest appeared to have been deforested, but that may have been bad eyesight due to my having not had my morning coffee. Electric company crews were on hand and had been since the tornado hit, working feverishly to restore electric power lines and replace broken poles, all the while contending with curious motorists.

I stopped by to check on Aunt Jo, who told me the names of four of the storm's victims, three of whom I knew. She had not slept throughout the night, except for an occasional catnap, and had talked to a few of her phone-friends, gathering reports from around the community. I would learn that other areas of the town and county were damaged. Driving along Hwy. 9 north of Pontotoc, on my way to Belmont, Sunday afternoon to pickup my wife who had spent the weekend helping our daughter tend to our newest grandchild, more storm damage was evident. It appeared that a second tornado had left its mark, too.

I drove back to Pontotoc using a different route, hoping to see some of the damage along Hwy. 6 east of Pontotoc, but traffic was so backed up that after viewing some of the damage, I decided to take a back road though a Black neighborhood near the old city dump. That proved to be a mistake, because the area had been hard hit by the tornado that crossed south Main Street, and hundreds of cars were snaking their way along narrow streets, with occupants of those cars stopping to "check out" the obvious destruction in the community.

My decision to show Barbara the damage on South Main St. was also a badly reasoned one. Traffic was terrible, and I worried I might actually run out of gas before getting to a service station on the other side of town. My only justification for touring any disaster area is that, in doing so, I am able to bring a sense of closure to the circumstances.

Robbie Spruill, Volunteer

Tornado damage in Pontotoc looks pretty much like tornado damage anywhere else. It's horrific. I don't care for horror movies, so my reasons for seeing areas destroyed by tornadoes are not prompted by a ghoulish dark side within me, and I don't normally chase ambulances and fire trucks to see wrecks or fires. Yet, Pontotoc is my hometown, and it will be my only home when I retire. Its people and its soil are special to me, and when disaster strikes home, a part of me cries out for answers. I don't understand all the emotional processes, but I know it helps me deal with adversity if I can at least walk in adversity's wake.

Various churches, organizations, relief agencies, and hundreds of ordinary people volunteered to help others recover from their losses. Of course, there will be governmental assistance, but it won't be accompanied with the same love and care rendered by the citizens of Pontotoc to their own.

The cooperative spirit of the people of Pontotoc has been strengthened by a natural disaster. Homes and businesses will be rebuilt and new trees will grow to replace those devastated by Herculean forces. Human life cannot be replaced, but life will go on. A generation from now, there will be little physical evidence left to remind us of the night of the Pontotoc Tornado.

The indefatigable spirit of the people of Pontotoc is alive and well.

Special Moments Belmont Supper Occasion

If you skimmed portions of the previous article, you may have missed my mention that Barbara was in Belmont over the weekend. She missed all the tornado excitement, but she's not at all torn up over it. (Yeah, that's punny.)

It was Rayanne's weekend to have her oldest daughter, so Barbara and I picked up Anna at the Butler household then drove over to Sarah's house to pick her up for the journey. I wasn't too keen on driving back to Pontotoc late Friday night, and I knew if Sarah would go along, I would have plenty to listen to on the return trip and would have no trouble staying awake. Sarah, more than lived up to my expectations.

Rayanne had told Barbara that her husband and her father-in-law would be grilling our supper. When Barbara mentioned I had the choice of two types of grilled chicken, I protested and asked for a hamburger. I figured if my daughter can order up whatever she wants that differs from what the rest of us are having, when she comes to visit me, then I could do the same when I visit her.

The grill cooks did a super job with the meat. It looked like something you'd order in a restaurant, and it was close. Rayanne's husband, Anson, has picked up a few pointers since he's been managing a restaurant, so hamburgers are no longer simple hamburgers. Grilled chicken is more than grilled chicken. Now, it's got a name, something like "Alpine Chicken" which may or may not be a fancy name for "Swiss Mushroom Chicken." Fancy or not, I did ladle sautéed mushrooms, onions, and garlic over the Swiss cheese that topped the half-pound sized chunk of ground beef Anson called a hamburger. It was fine.

The best part of the meal, however, may have been the homemade peach cobbler that Miss Becky, Anson's mom, made for us. Miss Becky is a scratch baker…none of those "easy crust" cobblers are made in her kitchen. If I ate at her table, regularly, I would be into several pants sizes bigger than what I am presently wearing.

I walked in the door of my daughter's home that evening intent upon making more pictures of relatives holding the newborn, Katherine Carter Adams. I emailed several people some of the pictures made of Katherine the day she was born, and several folks asked about a picture of Katherine and me. Therefore the first order of business was to have Barbara make K.C.'s picture with me holding her.

As I am the better "picture taker" in my family, I began making pictures of others holding K.C., and when it came time to make the other Grandpa's picture, Mr. Charles, or "Pops," I told him the only way I would make the picture would be if he held her high enough on his chest to cover the letters "Mississippi State" and the logo of the bulldog mascot on the shirt he was wearing. He smiled and good-naturedly obliged. He also made a point of telling others throughout the evening of my requirement.

I think we were eating dessert when Mr. Charles noticed the lettering on my wife's sweatshirt spelled out, "Big Dogs."

"I kind of like what's written on Barbara's shirt," he announced, pointing an unloaded fork in her direction.

"Me too," I responded, "but I told her they misspelled bozongas."

Actually, I didn't say bozongas, neither did I use the term "boobs," though I later reflected that it might have been less shocking, than what I did say. Somehow, I found myself speaking the countrified version of "teats." The words sounded strange coming from my lips. In the past I've spent good money on counselors who told me to always think before speaking. They took my money, and I've profited from their advice, but I haven't always succeeded in following that advice faithfully.

It took my audience by surprise as well. Shocked silence filled the room for a moment, as if everyone was mentally sounding the phrase "Big Dogs" with my suggested replacement. In the next moment the silence was broken with unbridled laughter. My wife buried her face in her hands, partly to hide her embarrassment and partly to hide her own laughter.

Depending upon how you define "special," it was a special moment, and it's one that won't be soon forgotten by the Adams Family of Belmont or the Carters of Pontotoc.

Bodock Beau Jesus Was...

Not everyone likes to have someone poke fun at his or her religion. Therefore, some readers may be turned off by the following report. Yet, for what it's worth, it passed the editor's standard of good taste. Thanks to Ken and Pat Gaillard for the contribution:

Theological Discussion

From a recent theological meeting in Rome:

THREE PROOFS THAT JESUS WAS MEXICAN:

His first name was Jesus.
He was bilingual.
He was always being harassed by the authorities.