1979

Wichita Falls, Texas, the county seat of Wichita County, was first settled by the Choctaw Indians in the early 1700's.  By the late 1860's white settlers had moved into the area to create cattle ranches.  1883 heralded the arrival of the Fort Worth to Denver Railway, putting Wichita Falls officially on the map.  There were no "falls" there after 1886 when a flood destroyed the city's namesake.  For our little family, in April of 1979, this northwest Texas city of 100,000 people became our new town.

Bill had taken a position at a manufactured housing firm there and we had purchased a new home on the south side of town.  Monday, April 9, 1979, we closed escrow on our new home, opened an account at the local bank, and drove around the area to locate schools, stores, restaurants and parks.  At the entrance to our subdivision was a driving range, and our two young daughters had to stop when we passed by in order to wonder at the enormous golf ball set on a forty-foot high tee that announced the presence of the range to the neighborhood and passers-by.  That day would prove to be the last time we saw the icon aloft above Southwest Parkway, the main thoroughfare in southern Wichita Falls.

The gentleman who had packed our furniture into the big van lines truck in California had been coerced by my many and varied pleas to get our belongings to Wichita Falls on Tuesday, April 10, instead of Thursday or Friday, as he had originally scheduled it to arrive.  It was a gift for which I could not thank him enough.  The motel room in downtown Wichita Falls was small for our family of four and our palates were ready for fresh bread and steamed vegetables, our backs ready for our own bed, and the girls ready for a sidewalk on which to play.

Clouds began forming mid-afternoon on Tuesday, the tenth, as we pulled up to our new home.  The air began to cool somewhat as we stepped out of the car and were greeted by our neighbors, an affable and charming older couple who had recently moved into their custom home next door.  For thirty minutes or so, while our daughters ran about the yard and up and down the sidewalk, we chatted with our new acquaintances.  Storms in Texas in the spring are not uncommon, so we had no inkling of the impending disaster being created by the deepening low pressure system and warm, moist, unstable air above us. We were busy in the house, scurrying around to ready it for occupancy while the upper level atmosphere was swirling into supercell thunderstorms, readying itself to rip through north Texas from Colorado.

Our 1976 red and white Cutlass pulled out of the driveway at about 4:45p.m., and we headed back to the motel for an early dinner.  Greenish-black clouds were by this time hovering menacingly over the city.  It was clear this was not ordinary thunderstorm as we watched the edges of the clouds dip down and curl around, creating the sense that we were at the top rim of a maelstrom that might at any moment suck us into its furious center.  At five o'clock we pulled into the drive-thru of the Wendy's restaurant downtown and ordered four hamburgers, fries and drinks.  Then the sirens began blaring, sounding like the clarion call for the end of the world.  The drive-thru employee was yelling at us to get out of our car and come inside immediately.  The Cutlass abandoned at the window, we grabbed our children and barreled through the glass doors held open for us by a teen-aged Wendy's employee.

"Get inside the meat locker!  Now!" he screamed, pointing toward it.

Other employees and patrons had already been ushered in.  Bill ran forward with the girls.  I turned to look back - Lot's wife - to see the destruction upon us.  A swirling, heinous funnel was eating its way through this small town and heading toward Wendy's!  A hand on my back pushed me forward into the refrigerator, and the manager locked the door.  We were trapped inside a horror movie, the monster, egregious and angry, ready to devour and destroy, haphazard and deadly.  My daughter's heart beat its pounding fear against my thigh as she gripped my leg for safety.  Prayers went up from our frozen foxhole; our teeth gritted against the expectation of breaking glass, flying roof and swirling debris.  At any moment we knew we could become part of the twisting super cell and be transported, Dorothy-like, to a less than happy Oz.  People were dying, no doubt, as we held our breath.  Would we be next?

Tears sparkled in all of our eyes the moment we heard the "all clear" sirens.  We sighed as one, hands unclenched, shoulders relaxed.  As the inserted key turned in the meat locker door, the thought on everyone's mind was, "What does it look like out there?"  We had no idea how close the tornado had come to us nor the extent of damage.  Tiptoeing out, we looked around like POW's who could not believe they had been released from captivity.  Wendy's was intact; our Cutlass sat alone and silent in the drive-thru.  Electricity was still functioning, and oblivious to the destruction along Southwest Parkway and the east side of the city, the cook went back to work and made us our burgers.

"Terrible Tuesday."  April 10, 1979, now forever known as "Terrible Tuesday."  It was an F4 tornado and was part of a record storm that created thirty tornadoes in the region.  Forty-five people were killed in Wichita Falls, twenty-five in their vehicles.  Our moving van was on Jacksboro Highway trying to get our belongings to us as promised.  One hundred eighteen people were injured because the monster struck at rush hour.  Twenty thousand people were suddenly homeless, their possessions lifted up and purloined by the tentacles of the tornadic demon.

Emergency vehicles screamed past us as we watched the surreal rescue scenes play out before us.  The window of the Wendy's served as a frame for the eerie 3D spectacle unfolding in real time as pick-up trucks with wounded and bloody victims tore past us on their way to the nearby hospital.  Our young daughters were munching burgers, slurping frosties, and playing with their fries while I felt caught between fantasy and reality and did not know my place in this drama.

As we parked the car at the motel after dinner, it became quickly apparent that many of the suddenly homeless were desperate for temporary shelter.  A line began to form at the motel office as shocked and disheveled citizens congregated, wide-eyed and weary, to buy a place to decompress and synthesize, if just for the night.  Bill took the girls inside and I walked over to the crowd to get an understanding of the storm's damage.  I did not really have to inquire, as the conversations were painfully self-explanatory.  There was nothing left of the south side of town.  The storm had lifted homes from their foundations and dropped them randomly elsewhere.  Semis had been thrown off the highways by the mighty monster's flailing arms; electric lines had been smashed to the ground; there were no traffic lights or street lights; all was plunged into utter blackness as if in an effort to hide the carnage until morning.

Our home, our neighbors, the driver of our moving van - panic surged to the surface.  I had to know what happened to our neighbors and if our home was still standing.  The information at the motel queue was that there was not brick left on brick in our new neighborhood.  Restless, sleepless, anxious, I pleaded with Bill to take me to our house.  "There are no lights, Kay.  There will be debris everywhere."

"Please."

At nine o'clock that night we drove city streets trying to find landmarks we could recognize that would lead us to our home.  Darkness is an ominous creature and it seemed to smother us as it wrapped us up in its essence. Without street lights, stop lights, the glow from neighborhood homes, and the missing moon and stars, hidden behind a blanket of clouds left by the twister, the headlights of our car cut an almost imperceptible path through the ebony night as we veered into the masterpiece of mayhem designed by the wind.  Supermarkets, banks build of brick, gas stations, restaurants, and convenience stores that had all been there that morning when we drove by were nowhere.  The bank vault stood like a flag on a hill or a little hut in a storm.  Even the bricks from which the bank was built had been picked up and thrown so only a few lay on the ground like olives that had fallen unnoticed from the tree during harvest.

It took us nearly an hour to find our neighborhood and to maneuver through the traffic and detritus.  The landmark golf ball and tee were conspicuously missing, driven by the wind to heaven-knows-where.  As we drove into the subdivision, the narrow car lights revealed one shiny foundation after another; here a door jamb with a door swinging open inviting us into the open-air home behind; there a roof picked up and carried off. 

"Oh, my God, Bill.  Our house must be gone!"

The girls were quiet in the back seat. I could hear Bill breathing.  The streets finally became impassable, so we finally stopped the car and walked, with the little flashlight from the glove compartment, the block to our house.  And there it was! There it was with roof and walls, a fence and doors, with windows uncracked and bricks still on bricks!  The miracle of it took my body and made it shake uncontrollably. The glow of the flashlight revealed, house by house, that the miracle extended all around us.  Our block was left  undevastated.  Our neighbors had foolishly gotten in their car and tried to outrun the tornado, but were safely back in the darkened sepulchre of their home, candles lit.

"Let's go now, Kay."  Bill put his arm around me and led me to the car.  The night was long, punctuated by the whining of sirens and the commiserating of family and friends discovering each other in the motel rooms and parking lot.

Early Wednesday morning, groggy from the restless night, I went in search of coffee.  The motel's restaurant was  packed, so I walked over to Wendy's. Long lines had formed even there.  Twenty thousand displaced people needed caffeine to cope, and all the utlities on the south and east sides were non-functioning - no water, electricity, gas or phones.  In my wakefulness during the night I did not know how to discover the condition of the moving van driver; I could only pray he was alive.  Our furniture was not worth his life. My predicament was minor compared to those in the coffee line at the fast food restaurant.  Not certain when we would have good again, I ordered coffee and breakfast for the family and headed back to the motel to pack up, check out and see what would happen next.

Bill left to go to his office, also on the south side of Wichita Falls, as soon as I returned.  If the building was still standing, he wanted to call relatives and friends to let them know we were all right.  Pay phones had been jammed the night before and service was sporadic because of downed lines.  Roadblocks had been set  up by the police.  No one was allowed into the disaster areas without specific consent.  Bill had to navigate through the area to arrive at work.  There was no discernable damage, but the phones were down, a co-worker told him.  As my husband stood talking to his friend, he noticed the red light on the incoming lines blinking.

"I thought the phones were out," said Bill, quizzically.

"We can get incoming," was the response.  "But the phones do not ring."  At this the associate answered the blinking line.

"It's for you, Bill."  He handed Bill the receiver.

Bill had given the van driver his office phone as a contact number.  His haggard voice on the other end of the line betrayed his annoyance at the monumental upheaval and unavoidable inconveniences created by our small town disaster.  He was stuck at a roadblock on Jacksboro Highway and needed our help to get through to our house.  Dumping our furniture and getting the heck out of Wichita Falls as quickly as possible was his only goal.  The two men agreed that the driver would wait an hour or so for Bill to get the girls and me to the house, then Bill would escort the van to meet us there.

Daylight shone a revealing light on all that the blanket of darkness had delayed our seeing as we drove to our new neighborhood.  Everything had simply disappeared.  Leveled. The voracious storm had swallowed up everything in its path and spit out the leftovers in mocking, random abandon over the landscape. Scores of people picked patiently through the debris around their foundations only to find pictures of people they did not know or  pieces of chairs and tables from someone else's dining room.  Storm-carried souvenirs were actually found several miles outside of Wichita Falls.  We heard the storm drove the big golf ball clear into Oklahoma!

As Bill was on his way to free the van driver, I busied myself with finding a place for our clothes and deciding where our furniture would be placed.  We were under a self-imposed deadline to get everything set up before dark so we could sleep safely in our beds.  I was walking through the living room when I looked up and saw my mother standing there, pink-lipped and smiling, tears of joy and relief dancing in her eyes!  Daddy was right behind her and I could see the exchange of anxiety for relief transform his face the minute he saw me.  It was probably a reflection of my expression.  Never had I been so glad to see anybody!  Squealing my joy, I opened my arms to include both of them into one grateful embrace.  My children ran in from their bedrooms for a prolonged "group hug."

"We had to know you were all right, precious," my mother was saying.  "So, we got up early this morning and decided we would come see for ourselves."

"Outside of town, we hit the roadblocks,"  Daddy continued.  "We had to talk our way into the disaster area, but they let us through when we told them your address and that you needed help."

The miracle of a good salesman!  My Daddy was determined to take care of his daughter and her family.  He and Mother did not know all they bargained for that day. Our irate driver could find no available movers to help him unload his truck, and he was not about to spend a minute more in Wichita Falls than he had to.  For fifty dollars each, he "hired" Daddy and Bill to help him empty his load into our house.  The five us threw ourselves into over-drive in what became an effort to establish a place of order at the core of chaos.  Set things in place, eyes hungry for evidence of a universe that had cease swirling.

Beyond fatigued, with stomachs growling, we reached a stopping point as the sun was going down. Bill had dug a couple of flashlights out of a box in the garage so that we could maneuver in the darkness of the house at nightfall.  Our children and Mother and Daddy needed to rest and eat; so, as darkness once again began its endeavor to hide the hideous holocaust of "Terrible Tuesday," we foraged for some food.  Disasters are inconvenient on every possible level; the simple task of finding food and running water became monumental.  One-fifth of the city was weary, hungry, dirty, bereaved and homeless.  On the perimeters of the disaster zone were restaurants, but all were jammed with people and the queues for food were literally hours long.  Truck routes had been diverted around the city in order to make way for emergency and clean-up vehicles, so restaurants were running low on food as were supermarkets and convenience stores.  Going outside the city seemed our only hope of eating before midnight.  Half way to Fort Worth we pulled off the highway and found a cafe where the wait was only an hour.  Each of us took turns in the restroom, washing our hands and faces and brushing our teeth.  It had been the business of many disaster victims to do the same all that day from the condition of the washrooms.  The little restaurant had unequivocally never had so much business, and there were few menu options from which to choose by the time we ordered our dinner. It could not have mattered less; we dined with clean hands and empty stomachs, grateful for family, food and a home.

As I watched the tail lights of Daddy's car fade away into the distance on its way south that evening, a little girl rose up in me and caught me by surprise as a lump of longing homesickness lodged for a moment in my throat and I blinked back a stray tear.  The tiny arm of my three-year-old then wrapped around my leg; I picked her up and kissing her, headed toward our waiting car.


















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