After the storm had passed, I had mixed feelings about what I’d gone through. My first thought was this will be something new and interesting. I won't be going home tonight. I’ll get to sleep at other places and maybe I’ll be getting new clothes to wear. I might like this. I didn’t grieve for a thing I had lost. There was an outpouring of goodwill and support from the community and donations started to pour in almost immediately. I was excited to go through the boxes, that came in. However, it didn’t take me long to hate the realizing we were the objects of pity and curiosity, and everyone wanted to hear our story. I didn’t like the idea of being a charity case.

Mom seemed to enjoy reciting her story, which of course, included me. She could be very dramatic. After hearing her version a dozen times, I had to hide and cover my ears. The story never varied. It sounded like a recording, and I thought if I have to hear this one more time, I’ll scream.

People came from everywhere to look at the storm damage. They got out of their cars and prowled around looking for anything worthwhile. Some gave us what they found that we might want and others kept it for themselves. Mom walked up on two women fighting over some unbroken jars of fruit she had canned. There were a few chickens walking around among the debris. Some guys were chasing them and taking them home.

We spent a few nights in different places, but as soon as Grandpa got a tarpaulin on what was left of his tin roof, we moved in with them. The rest of February was extremely windy. At night, even when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, strong winds would blow the tarp up and down against the tin on the roof. The sound mimicked that of the storm. Fear caused my stomach to knot up. I couldn’t handle it. Several times, my parents had to get up in the middle of the night to take me somewhere else so I could relax and sleep. I think I know what post-traumatic stress disorder is like.

Kids at school looked at me with curiosity and wanted to hear my version of the storm, but I didn’t want to talk about it. I became quiet and withdrawn. Several times, I was given envelopes containing money. My Sunday School class gave me thirty dollars which I assumed was mine to keep, but my parents used it to buy a new aluminum patio set. They tried to explain it was for family use, but I felt they had taken what was mine.

At least the house was insured, so the rubble was soon cleared away and builders started a new house. This made me feel better. I had something to be excited about again. This house would have indoor plumbing. That was a big step up for us. I don’t think many people bothered with house plans in those days. Mom and Dad sketched off what they wanted, and the builders seemed to know what to do. Everyday after school, I went to watch their progress.

Mom went shopping and picked out new furniture which would be held until the house was finished. The house I was born in, which the storm destroyed, was only 14 years old. This one was similar in some ways, but much nicer. It was still a two bedroom. These bedrooms had closets. There was a larger bath and kitchen area and larger porches. The wood burning fireplace was now in the living/dining combination room instead of in a bedroom. This time we had a gas stove in the kitchen and propane space heaters in every room.

 Amazingly enough once the piano dried out it was refinished and still usable after new felts and being tuned. The player parts were ruined so they were taken out.

The night we moved back home was exciting. My room had twin beds. I would share it with my grandmother during the weeks she lived with us. Mom had also bought me a desk.

While we were eating supper that first night with all of the house lights on, something amazing happened. Before the storm, we’d had eight cats. We hadn’t seen any of them since the storm and had assumed they were all dead. That night seven of them came back home apparently uninjured. They had survived in the wild, eating whatever they could catch.

After our close call, Dad insisted if it was stormy outside, we needed to get in the car immediately and go to my grandparent’s house, so at a moment’s notice, we could make a mad dash to their storm pit. If my other grandmother was with us, she wouldn’t get out of bed. She’d had a vision as a teenager when she almost died of typhoid fever. It left her with no fear of death. In the vision, her spirit guide told her to go back, because it wasn’t her time. After that she always said, “I won’t die till my time comes. If it is my time, then I’ll go from my bed.”

I hated going into the storm shelter. It was about thirty yards from my grandparent’s house inside a small hill. The walls were dirt and benches lined three sides. It was low enough from floor to ceiling the adults had to stoop to enter. It was always full of critters like field mice, huge dirt spiders and grasshoppers. If we were lucky, any snakes had been chased out earlier in the day. We use kerosene lanterns and lamps for light. It smelled of wet dirt and oil.

No one other than Aunt Eva would dare go in there unless it looked as though we might die if we didn’t. The trip to the pit was always made at the height of a thunder storm. We would arrive soaked to the bone. Grandpa never went. He would stand on his back porch staring at the sky and giving advice on whether it would get worse or would soon be over.

By the time the fall school semester started, I was in for an unpleasant surprise. The school had switched Miss Nicholson around and now instead of teaching fourth grade, she was teaching sixth. I was going to be in her class for another year. What a bummer.

There was one thing which I thought would be good. During the war years, a lot of babies seemed to have come into the world, and now they were starting to school. More teachers and classrooms were required. The County built another building to house 5th,6th and 7th grades. It was a more modern building with a glass floor to ceiling windows along one wall of each classroom.

What I thought was a good thing, turned into a nightmare for me. It had only been six months since the storm. My nerves hadn’t settled yet. Those floor to ceiling windows faced the southwest, which was the direction in which storms developed. Although, we didn’t experience a tornado, there were times when it looked as if one might come at any moment. Having a panoramic view of black clouds and lightning left me paralyzed with fear, which I did my best to hide.

My fear of storms only lasted about a year, and then for some odd reason, I started to really like them. Maybe my grandmother's philosophy rubbed off on me, and I decided if I’d survived that tornado without a scratch, it must not have been my time. I didn’t need to worry about it because if it was my time, there wasn’t much I could do about it.