Now summer was here. The weather was very hot. Heat waves rose from the pasture. Every pig lay in the mud hole. They would not get out till evening. The dog would not leave the shade of the cottonwood.

I didn’t move either, except to turn the pages of the book in my hand or adjust the fan to move the air around me. Nancy Drew had nearly solved her mystery when Mom told me to go water the pigs. “This weather is too hot for them,” she said.

I pulled up the handle on the faucet and sent the cool artesian water spraying over the pigs. They grunted their thanks. Thunderheads were piling up over Manchester. Huge white mushrooms with dark undersides where gathering in a moving mass. The air was thick and heavy to breathe. The clouds rose higher and blotted out the sun. A greenish haze settled on the prairie.

A door banged shut in the house. As the sky darkened and the wind picked up, we made a dash for the clothes, whipping back and forth on the line. My sister ran to let the huddle of chickens into the hen house. Dad came running in from the shop, where he was working on the rake. Windows slammed shut and the whole house creaked. With beating hearts, we watched the storm. It seemed to stand still over the town of Manchester. Then in one frightful moment, we realized the storm was headed right for us.

“I don’t want to look any more,” I said, low, at the window. My sister held my hand and we could not pull our eyes away from the sight.

The cloud was rolling and boiling, moving in every direction. Then the movement slowed and it organized itself into a long arm reaching to the ground. The black, turning arm came closer and we could see the rooftops, sheds and fences, even the cows, sucked up. It was sweeping the prairie clean.

The cellar door banged shut over our heads and Dad latched it firmly, We huddled under the stairs as the roaring splintering thunder rolled over our house. I could not think. I could not remember who I was. There was only this noise that made up the whole world.

A long time later there was silence. “I guess we’ll have to look,” Dad said and his hand shook as he unlatched the cellar door. We climbed out, like gophers from our burrow. Dad’s voice rasped out, “The house… it’s gone, Loretta.”

“Never mind, Harold.” Mom’s voice trembled only a little. “We’ll get through this somehow.”

We stood in a room without roof or walls. A book lay at my feet, it’s pages fluttering. The dog appeared from nowhere and leaned against my leg. I leaned down to hug him and my hand came away with blood.

Mom reached down and hugged us fiercely. “We are together. That’s what matters.” she said, her voice shaking. Dad put his arms around us too. “Look up,” he said softly. A feeble sun was trying to shine. And a rainbow arched over the broken farmstead.

---

This is a work of fiction inspired by fact. On June 24, 2003 Redstone Valley Farm was destroyed by a tornado. None of us were at home when the storm hit. I used the real memories and reinvented it, trying to sound like Laura Ingalls Wilder.

When I read the Little House books as a child, I thought they were literally true. As an adult, I learned that she had taken her memories and embellished them as I did here. But they still feel true to me.

–Liz

More to read:

The Ideal Life

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