Newton, Mississippi is a place which has seen its share of tornados. Some call it a tornado alley. There was a time when almost everyone who owned land, dug tornado pits into the ground or the sides of an embankment. Before I was ever in a tornado, I’d heard stories of how my cousin was picked up by one and tossed aside while still an infant. She had survived but was too young to remember. I always thought it might be a neat adventure. I was immature and apparently didn’t feel there had been enough excitement during my first ten years. Besides, I’d seen the Wizard of Oz movie.

February is usually still a time to cozy up beside a roaring fire, but for several days, our weather had turned spring-like and windy. My grandpa was an expert in weather predictions. He came by our house to borrow one of Dad’s tools. While he was there, he looked up at the sky and declared, “This weather’s not right. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s not a tornado in the making.”

“I hope we have one,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind taking a ride in the sky.”

“Don’t even say something like that. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he scolded. “People die in tornadoes.” I briefly remembered, how, not so long ago, Dad had scolded me for telling Aunt Chris her house would burn down. I’d gotten that one right. Maybe I needed to watch my mouth.”  

The following day was Friday the 13th. We had a day off from school because our auditorium was needed for a conservation meeting that a lot of people planned to attend. The morning dawned with an odd yellowish cast to the cloudy sky and a warm brisk wind. It felt like barefoot weather to me and I begged not to have to put on shoes. Mom protested. “It’s still winter. You don’t go barefooted this early."

“Please. It’s hot outside. I hate shoes.”  She gave in at first, but later, when I wanted to ride my bike to grandpa’s house, she insisted I put on my rubber boots. There was lightening in the distance, and she thought boots would help ground me if I should get struck.

At their house, everything was in an uproar. Grandpa had had a malarial attack. Malaria was in his system, and he suffered reoccurring attacks of chills and fever. Grandma was insisting he stay in bed, but the farm animals were acting up. His mule was chasing a heifer and Grandpa was determined to get up and go lock the mule in a stall.

Aunt Eva had her rain gear on, and she was outside trying to make sure there weren’t any snakes around the storm pit. She needed to check the kerosene lamps for oil and see if there were dry matches available. It was apparent they didn’t want me underfoot.

“You better go on back home. You need to get inside. It looks like it is about to storm. You should get off that bicycle before you get struck by lightning,” Grandma told me.

It was nearly lunchtime and my dad would be driving home soon. I was getting hungry, so I pedalled back to our house. Mom was relieved to see me back. She had started to turn off the eyes on the oil stove, but instead, had gone to the back door to look out. A sudden vacuum snatched the door from her hand and slammed it shut with a bang. What she had seen before the door closed, terrified her.

“Beth, run quick. Get down between those two beds in the back bedroom. I’m coming as soon as I’m sure this stove’s turned off.”

Despite the fear in her voice, it was a game to me. I decided to make a tent for us to crawl into. I grabbed a big safety-pin and pinned the two spreads together and crawled under them. Mom was there in seconds. She snatched the pinned spreads and threw them aside, dropping her head down on my back and putting her arms around me. There were double windows beside the larger bed. Just as she dropped her head, there was a horrible roar and the windows pulled loose from their frames and sailed across the room, crashing into the opposite wall, and sending glass shards in every direction. This got my attention.

Our whole house tilted sideways, and I saw balls of fire rolling across the angled floor. “Fire!” I yelled. “Let’s get out of here.” That was a pointless thing to say. We were airborne by that time and Mama was yelling. “Pray!”. I prayed “Please save us, Lord. We don’t want to die.”  With all that roaring noise, I’m sure He was the only one who could have heard me. If Mama was praying, I didn’t hear her.

My eyes felt full of sand, and I had to close them. From that point on, my experience and Mom’s differed. I felt like we were being rapidly sucked up into the air, and I likely became unconscious at that point. Mom later claimed she felt as if she was peacefully floating and thought she heard the beating of wings. I’m sure she was in a semi-conscious state as well. We must have lost our breath in the vacuum.

We couldn’t have been out long, but suddenly, we were both wide awake and we were sitting in an upright position on a plank. Mom still had her arms around me. Our feet were in a hole with about eight inches of water in it. Our hair and clothes were soaked and a rain was beating down on us.

Her first question was, “Are you alright?” Mine was, “Where are we?” There was nothing but rubble in ever direction. Nothing looked familiar. Mom wasn’t as confused as I was. We had come down from our sky ride near the dirt road. As soon as we realized we were both unhurt, we got up from the plank, likely attic flooring, on which we were sitting, and started up the road toward my grandparent’s house. Mom warned me to be prepared. “They might not be alive."

Fortunately, only the tin roof and front porch were gone from their house and no one was hurt in our family. Other families were not so fortunate. There were many deaths and dozens injured. A neighbor family, Mom and I had visited several times, were found dead in a field. She was decapitated, and his eyes had been sucked out. It was a violent storm. I can’t imagine how we survived without even a bruise.

My grandmother was wringing her hands and moaning, “We have lost everything. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

Mom sounded like a Holiness preacher. “Praise the Lord! Thank God we’re alive. It’s a miracle. Things can be replaced. People can’t.”

It wasn’t too long before my dad came stumbling down the road, after having gone through the rubble. He was in tears and couldn’t believe we were all alive and unhurt. He had driven from the other direction and had watched as the tornado crossed the highway taking houses. He saw it as it zig-zagged across the field taking down trees, and then to his horror, his own house. He’d frantically driven over limbs and rubble, thinking we were surely dead. For the last twenty minutes, he’d been putting out fires and moving rubble looking for our dead bodies. 

This is one of six or seven stories I’ve written about this storm. Each time there are some differences. It made a lasting impression on me and is as clear today as if it had happened yesterday. Yet, I don’t remember any fear. It all happened too fast and probably caused more shock than fear. I will admit future stormy weather jangled my nerves for a while. I’ll talk about that in a future chapter.