The Shape of Today

The Shape of a Fearful Memory

Though I didn't realize it yesterday, a significant anniversary was observed. A quarter of a century ago a swarm of tornadoes tore through my little corner of Georgia, leaving a lot of death and destruction in their wake.

It later came to be known as the Palm Sunday Tornado Outbreak, and it stands out in my mind to this day because I distinctly remember an Atlanta meteorologist pointing directly at the system on a map the night before the storms. At that time they were still in Alabama and still terrifying-looking on radar. Forecasting tech was nothing like it is today, but you could still see how dangerous those storms looked; a massive clump of orange, red, and fuchsia.

I recall the following morning, March 27, as being hot and still. Dad told me, "We have bad weather on the way, let's stay close to home." And by lunchtime, there was no longer any doubt. The weather radio was howling and we could hear cries of alarm on the police scanner as the sheriff's department tried to get tourists on the town square to safety. My strongest memory is that of standing and looking out the office window at the backyard just as the first of the storms struck. It had grown as dark as twilight and the tree branches were whipping in the wind, but there was no sound. Even the thunder we'd been hearing earlier had died away. When the tornado hit, it did so to our north which was fortunate; this little wooden house would not have survived a direct hit. Wind slammed the kitchen door open and shut and Dad sent me to close the inner door--we'd just recently tiled the kitchen and he didn't want rainwater seeping between the tiles and loosening the adhesive. Just as I got to the door, however, I glimpsed the funnel cloud in the distance and an even stronger gust of wind rocked the house. I completely lost it, spinning around, fleeing through the house, and shouting "TO HELL WITH THE FLOOR!!!"

It wasn't long after this that much of the county lost power and phone service, and it was days before we knew more than rumors regarding the damage and fatalities. Just here, on the western edge of the county, damage wasn't too bad. To the north and east was another story...my hairdresser and her family had kept horses and lost all of them along with their home. That part of the county literally looked like a war zone, with snapped-off trees scattered like dropped toothpicks. Wires draped over the highway made it impossible for Dad to drive his truck up to his brother's house (their home was also damaged but luckily no one was hurt). This experience left me shaken and easily spooked by thunderstorms for a long, long time.

Eventually, I got over this fear. Eventually, after mourning the lost (5, in our county, there were 40 overall), people healed and rebuilt. Eventually, the savaged trees grew back. Because this after all is part of the rhythm of life. It grows, flourishes, gets cut down by some calamity or other, and grows anew. For my part, I'm thankful I was out of the scythe's path and am able to sit here today and remember.