Tornado

Reader Contribution by Polly Rogers Brown
Published on January 26, 2019
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The early evening sky of June 8, l953, hung over us like a wet woolen blanket. The oppressive humidity made us walk slowly, stooped and shuffling like old people in dim light.

Mother had told us after supper to work in the garden while there was still light; the carrots needed thinning and the rest of the rows could use a good hoeing. But as the evening wore on and the air grew hot and heavy, we shuffled toward the back porch to plead for mercy and a cold drink. Mother came out and looked toward the southwest, one hand shading her eyes, the other smoothing her gingham apron. “Something doesn’t feel right,” she murmured to no one in particular as she walked down the steps and stood beside us. “I’ve never seen the sky that color before.” The tone of her voice made us suddenly afraid, as if someone were standing behind us and ready to grab us by the throats.

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