Storms Part 1 - The Tornado

We were in the basement. The T.V. had sent out that alarm that would usually say, “This has been a test, only a test of the Emergency Broadcast System.” But instead, the voice had warned that a tornado had been spotted and had touched down in Southeast part of town.” We looked outside and it was eerily calm and still. And yellowish.  I was only 10 years old, but recognized an ominous scene when I saw one. Then we heard the train whistle noise. We had been warned about that in school.  It meant a tornado was very close by.

So, now we were huddled together. My father had grabbed the mattress off of my brother’s bed in the basement. (His hippie dream room, beaded curtains and all) All four children and my Mom and Dad crouched behind the mattress. We could hear the sounds of tree limbs cracking and falling, hard rain, wind, and unpleasant crunching of metal and wood. I was scared. My sister suddenly remembered that our cat, Scooter, was upstairs and vulnerable if the giant Oak in our front yard were to fall on the house. My Dad sprinted up the steps to make a rescue. He was back down with Scooter in record time. He said the limbs from the Oak tree were brushing against the bay window of the house. That means that the mighty Oak was in a battle for its life if it was being bent that far by the wind. And a few minutes later it was over. The rain stopped. The sun came out. And it was quiet, but the normal kind of quiet. Birds started chirping.

We came out from behind the mattress and made our way up the steep basement steps.  My father was a photographer for the local newspaper, so we knew he would immediately be outside to take photos of the damage. We all went outside to get a first-hand look at the situation. Our big Oak tree was fine and standing upright. Some little branches were scattered across the yard. Then an exclaim from my mother got our attention, “Oh, my word. Look at the Maddert’s house!” First I saw that an entire tree had been ripped from the ground roots and all. I couldn’t believe that wind, nothing more than  moving air, could have so much power as to actually pull a tree out of the ground like a plucked carrot. Even more convincing of the storms power was that this trees roots laid beneath an asphalt driveway and the storm had pulled the roots right through the asphalt. As my eyes followed the trunk of the tree that ran at about a 45-degree angle, instead of straight up, I saw that it had landed squarely on top of the Maddert’s house. We knew they were OK, because they were already out surveying the damage themselves.

Dad snapped some shots and then he was off to drive around town and find more damage. Then it would be hours in the darkroom picking the best shots in time to make the afternoon deadline and get the scoop on the morning paper which wouldn’t be out until the following day.  Some neighborhood kids came down the street and said they were going to check out the woods. We joined them in the walk just across the next street where we always cut through a neighbor’s large yard and down the sloping hillside to the woods that I knew like the back of my hand. I can still vividly see an entire 3-D image of those woods in my head 45 years later. At the bottom of the slope was a split rail fence that we would go through or over. To the right was the only waterfall that I knew of in town. It cascaded over a dam, down a steep rocky path and then poured into the fast moving tributary creek that ran through the several acres of woods that I regularly played in .

At first it looked like the woods had remained undisturbed. But then one of the kids said, “Look at that tree.” Unlike the plucked tree in my neighbor’s yard, this tree was still standing up straight, but the top of the tree was gone. All that remained was a twisted spike at the top. It looked like the twister had hovered over this tree and turned the top like children twist the stem on an apple until it breaks free. I wondered if the tornado had counted the twists it took using the alphabet in order to discern the letter of the name of the boy or girl it would marry in the future. As we made our way down to the bridge that crossed the creek, we saw more damage. And then we realized the bridge was gone as well. Posts with chains dangling from them remained. And if we looked further down the creek we could see fragments of the wooden footbridge snagged on rocks holding fast against the unusually strong currents that the excessive rainfall had caused. On the other side of the creek there was a large sandy area where I often spent much of my time collecting mica and playing in the sand. Right in that spot, three trees had fallen into a perfect triangle across each other.  We would later name the framed in spot “sand circle.”

This part of the woods had been devastated and the storm had thinned the tree cover so much that we could see houses on the other side of the woods that had not been visible before.  We rock-hopped across the creek since the bridge was gone.  We followed the familiar paths to the various cool spots. Through the gully to the abandoned rock quarry. The damage was limited here. Then down the path to the left to check out skipper’s island. Not named for a ship’s Captain, but as a refuge for truants.  This part of the woods seemed fine. And then the opposite direction down the path that hugged the bank of the creek. My favorite part of this route was where the trail wound close to about a twenty foot drop off. A natural sort of damn lay at the bottom of that part of the creek and produced a deep mini-lake. This is the spot I would come to from the other side of the creek and sail boats made of sticks and leaves. 

Then on up a slope along the trail that brought us to the top of the waterfall on the other side from where we started. It seemed that the tornado had skipped around. It yanked hard on the tree just two doors down from my house. It twisted the top off a tree near the waterfall and must have carried it and dropped it somewhere else. It had decided to do most of the damage near the sandy bank at the turn in the creek near the old bridge. It had created a geometric piece of art using tree trunks and sand as its medium.

We couldn’t cross at the top of the dam that day. There was too much water rushing over. So, we made our way back to an easier crossing point. And then back home. Dad called when he was back at the paper to print what he had photographed. There had been lots of damage around the neighborhoods that I roamed freely about in those carefree days. Trees even fell on the rich people’s houses along Queens Road and throughout Eastover and Myers Park.  Most people would see the photos in the paper later that afternoon, but Dad brought home prints and contact sheets for us to look at.

Storms like this are momentous events that get branded into our memories in a way that is recallable with much more clarity than other memories from around the same time. Most of the days of my tenth year are completely buried in the recesses of my brain. This was the first of many literal and figurative storms to come. This storm was probably the first event I can remember that had a fundamental impact on my worldview. I gained respect for the power of the natural world. I saw how a few minutes could rearrange my world and alter it into something completely new. 

I don’t recall that anyone was hurt or killed by this storm. I remember it in a nostalgic way. It seems important in a symbolic sense. It’s as if the storm was perfectly timed to shake me from my childhood innocence and prepare me for the world that we all eventually realize can be a harsh place to live at times. It also provided me with context in which to value the normalcy of everyday life. And it perhaps it planted a seed in my psyche that change is inevitable and what may seem like a terrible event at the time can become an awesome memory that never goes away. If the storm had not happened, that entire year would now only exist as a blur of routine days lacking any clarity at all.

There would be more storms and they always seem to have a way of sweeping away one reality and replacing it with a new one.

Hope over Fear

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself” Franklin D. Roosevelt

We have all heard this famous quote. We were raised in a world that has the capacity to destroy itself in an instant. I never really understood the words uttered by FDR at his first inauguration. It has been re-quoted over and over by people of every political viewpoint. It has been used by both well intentioned people and those who seek to do evil.  These words feel powerful and reassuring, but in such a way that they can be easily manipulated by anyone for any cause of action. We were taught these words, but rarely were made aware of the context in which they were used. In my life, I do not recall ever having an in-depth conversation about what having only fear itself to fear means. But the world is once again at a key juncture in which we must choose between fear and hope. So, as I read an article by David Brooks in the New York Times just now, I realized that the meaning of Roosevelt’s words should have long been clear to me.

Division leads to fear. Fear is vulnerable to authoritarianism. Fear keeps us in our place, paralyzed into complacency. Or fear makes us admire those who are angry and lashing out at others in an effort to further divide us. Fear allows those who hold power to define who we are, while hope allows us to decide who will hold power. That’s why oligarchs, aristocrats, and autocrats want to crush hope and instill fear. I have been learning to play The Beatles song LET IT BE on my keyboard. There is a lyric that resonates at this time with me. Paul sings, “For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see. There will be an answer. Let it be.”  Divided we give in to fear. Together we have a chance to see truth.

The meaning of the fear itself quote has been right in front of me my whole life and across all aspects of it. Personal fear inhibits our ability to enjoy life to its fullest. Fear of flying has stopped me from seeing beautiful places that I long to visit. Fear of heights has kept me from standing close enough to the edge of overlooks along the Blue Ridge Parkway to witness the spectacular views in their full context. Fear of poverty has kept me from taking risks that might have improved my ability to provide more abundantly for my family and others.  Fear of not being good enough has limited my desire to play music and sing in front of other people. Fear of the perception of others means that I have never learned to dance.

Over the last two years, I have been making an effort to defeat my personal fears. I have crossed the mile-high swinging bridge at Grandfather Mountain. I have taken guitar lessons and stood on stage at open mic nights playing, singing, failing, and succeeding.  But with each attempt my fear diminishes. Maybe one day I will take to a stage and dance with complete abandon, Mick Jagger fashion.

Public fear has been used to manipulate me, my loved ones, my community, and my country my whole life. It would be dishonest if I said that I had never been manipulated by this type of fear. Shamefully, I have. I have feared people who are different from me in only the most superficial ways. Skin color, hair type, facial features. These fears were instilled in me because the people who held power wanted all of us to be fearful of each other. They wanted us to remain parted so that we could not see the answers. I believe the answer is hope, even as our world is turning away from hope and embracing fear. Powerful men are using fear to re-shape the world order and place us on the precipice of war. And we all know that the next world war will be the last. Fear will ultimately be the driving force behind the complete destruction of humanity, if we allow it.

I will not allow fear to lead me down this path and neither should any of us. The powerful and rich men who drive this fear are short sighted and only concerned with filling their own emptiness with power and material possessions. They will not manipulate us as long as we hold on to hope. Fred Rogers told us to, “always look for the helpers” when we were children. As grown-ups, we must always look for the hopeful to lead us. Those who wield fear over hope do so only to further their own agenda. Donald Trump told David Muir in an interview, The World is an angry place.” Donald Trump is an angry man, but my world is a hopeful place. A place where all we have to fear is fear itself.

Losers and Trump's Locomotive Breath

“In the shuffling madness
Of the locomotive breath,
Runs the all, time loser,
Headlong to his death.”

Jethro Tull

If I had a flute, I would be wailing away on it right now. Ian Anderson style. Blasting it with no regard for how the instrument was intended to be played. I feel like we are all inside that song right now. Locomotive Breath. The song begins with a foreboding piano solo in which the dark ride about to begin could easily be overlooked. The piano piece is pretty and sounds a lot like complacency. It’s not going anywhere, but there are sad undertones in the notes. But then the piano marches into an unmistakable train cadence. The passengers are probably feeling pretty comfortable and confident at this point. Just a normal train ride with a competent Conductor. But then the band kicks in you know that we are on a runaway train. You can feel it in the guitar and the rhythm. Ian Anderson uses his flute to scream out a warning. The flute pleads for us to notice that the train is headed for catastrophe.

There have been hundreds of songs written about trains. Trains were born to be metaphors. Every word associated with trains seems like the engineers who designed them were thinking about creating poetic devices as much as they were about designing a mode of transit. Think about the words we use when we talk about trains. Locomotive, junctions, cross-ties, tracks, switchman, signals, and crossings. Whistles and bells. Runaway. All of us have been told the story of the little train that could. It had to use all its might to push the big train up the steepest grade. And we hear songs about trains that make it to the downward side of those steep grades and the momentum builds and becomes an unstoppable disaster.

But the runaway train in Locomotive Breath is not out of control because of a steep grade. The conductor has not lost control. This is not a song about a tragic train accident. There is something sinister and secretive going on. A deliberate act has been committed with the intent of setting the train un an unstoppable crash course. “Charlie stole the handle and the train it won’t stop going. No way to slow down.”

I want to sound out the warning with the ferocious style of Ian Anderson blowing across the flute’s mouthpiece. Some of us heard the piano at the beginning and only heard the pretty notes. We closed our ears to the dark notes of complacency. Some of us hear the piano rhythm plinking out the normal steadiness expected on an ordinary train ride. We imagine that is all this is. Just a normal ride along a new track that the switchman has put us on. Some of us hear the intensity pick up as the guitar, bass, and drums start churning in a way that sounds like mob mentality. The band begins churning up the dirt and soot from the underbelly. It reminds us of the darkness that always resides just beneath the surface waiting for some sinister character to dredge it up.

We are in that part of the song right now.  The flute has started screeching out its warning but only some of us can hear it that way. Some hear it as a call to party, a time to embrace the darkness, a time to forget all that we know is right and give in to greed and the lust for power. Who cares if the children have to jump off a train that won’t slow down.

I want that flute. I want the largest amplifiers I can find. I want to warn that Charlie has stolen the handle and this train is going, it has no way to slow down. But too many passengers are unaware of the fact that the train has been compromised. They are oblivious to the screaming flutes of protests, and news reporters, and the endless tweets from Charlie himself saying, “Yes, I stole the handle, the train is going, and it cannot slow down.” Charlie is a loser. Charlie is jealous. Charlie wants to hold all the power. Charlie is setting us on the ultimate crash course. Pick up a flute and sound out a warning. It’s going to take us all to stop the locomotive breath. He hears “the silence howling.”  We cannot be silent.