Table of Contents

III-12. A TIME TO TEAR DOWN

Great perils have this beauty,
that they bring to light the fraternity of strangers.

Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

 

Making Arrangements

Larry and I moved our trailer over to the Habitat RV park to clean, catch up on laundry, and get a little rest while we went about the process of figuring out how to make arrangements to help in Birmingham. We were advised to contact an Alabama Baptist Association, which would most likely be responding to the disaster.

On Monday, I called the local Baptist Association and obtained the number of one in the Rock Creek area of Alabama, but they were so inundated with pleas for immediate help that they were unable to handle my request for assistance in finding a place to park. I was referred to the Birmingham Baptist Association (BBA) and, when I called there, Peggy answered--a lady who qualifies as a saint! Despite the fact that her phone had been ringing incessantly for five days, there was no hint of hurry or frenzy in her voice.

I explained that we were full-time RVers who wanted to come help but could not afford to pay private campground fees; therefore, we needed to set up at a church or some other free facility. Ideally, I added, we'd like water and electric hook-ups and would need access to a shower. She asked when we planned to arrive, then assured me that arrangements would be made; all we needed to do was show up at the registration tent.

Getting Settled In Tornado Country

On Thursday morning, eight days after the tornado had struck, we headed out of Americus and arrived in mid-afternoon at the registration tent in Jefferson County. As promised, one of the volunteers recognized our names and directed us to Westwood Baptist Church, which would become our home for the next several weeks.

The Church, with a membership of 2400, was an impressive, sprawling, brick complex. Watson, the facilities manager, greeted us with gracious Southern hospitality and helped us get situated behind the gym. Then he gave us a tour of the building, indicating where we should go in the event of a tornado warning. In fact, he informed us, one was predicted for that evening.

One of the Church's ministries was an all-encompassing child and youth program, which included a fully equipped nursery and day care, and early-morning drop-off and after-school pick-up service. The full-sized gymnasium had two shower rooms that we could use.

After settling in and eating dinner, we turned on the evening news. Nashville, Tennessee, had been hit by a tornado that afternoon in the Centennial Park area where we had visited the previous year. Our reaction made us realize that, as a result of our travels, frequently the daily news now touches us personally. The places we have visited are no longer simply names or images on the screen. It is as though we are hearing reports about our hometown.

Early in the evening, as a storm began moving in our direction, all of the stations preempted their programming to carry continuous storm tracking and monitoring reports. In the following weeks, we became accustomed to such epi­sodes (which are a regular occurrence in the Southeast's version of Tornado Alley) and well acquainted with "storm watch" vocabulary: cells, hooks, micro­bursts, straight-line winds, tornadic action. Moreover, weather forecasters are often local heroes. We later saw banners all over the stricken area proclaiming, "James Spann is Our Man!" Many credited him with saving their lives by con­vincing them that the April 8 storm was one they must take seriously.

On our first night in Birmingham, though, it all was new to us. We anxiously followed our atlas closely, trying to locate the counties that were highlighted on the tiny map in the corner of the TV screen. One thing that is vital to know in the South is the county you are in and the names of the surrounding ones. People generally reference locations by county unless they are talking about a large, well-known city. Thus, if you ask someone where they are from, they most likely will say Jackson County or Franklin County instead of the name of a town or city.

Having caught just a glimpse of minor storm damage on our way to the church, we were wide awake and on edge until midnight, when it finally ap­peared that the storm would pass us by. Even then, as we lay wondering what we would encounter the next day, it was difficult to fall asleep.

In the early morning hours, I was awakened by a roaring noise that thundered right over the trailer. I bolted upright in bed, saying "Oh, no," as I thought for sure a tornado was upon us. By the time I roused Larry (who acquired the ability to sleep through the sound of artillery bombardment in Vietnam), I realized it was only a low-flying jet. I shuddered at the thought of how the real thing must have sounded. I was unable to get back to sleep.

On Our Way

We checked in at the Birmingham Baptist Association registration tent at 8 a.m. the next morning. Inside the tent were boxes of gloves, mini-pouches with Band-Aids and aspirin, fruit, drinks, donuts, snacks and jugs of water for the volunteers to take with them. We were given a strip of blue cloth to tie to our wrist or belt loops and asked to register the time we left. We would also be required to check back in and record the time we returned. Everyone had to be accounted for, both for safety and security purposes.

All of the ladies conducting registration displayed the same calm demeanor that I had encountered over the phone with Peggy, despite the fact that they had worked non-stop since the storm, barely grabbing a few hours of sleep each night. Their patience and equanimity were admired by all the volunteers. National Guardsmen and FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency) personnel were on hand outside the tent, as well as a bearded gentleman who had staked out a corner on the grass. Next to him was a big hand-lettered sign: "Free Chain Saw Sharpening."

When there were enough volunteers to fill the van, we climbed in and headed for McDonald Chapel. Though I had long anticipated that moment, I suddenly felt my stomach knot up. It struck me that I'd never projected how I might feel if and when I encountered the scene of a major disaster. How was I going to react when I came face to face with it? Perhaps others in the van were experiencing similar anxieties, because the only one doing much talking was the driver.

Stark Contrast

The van stopped at an intersection at the bottom of the bowl-shaped community of McDonald Chapel, and we all stepped out. We were to help the volunteers who were already working on a corner site clearing and sorting debris and taking apart the remains of a house by hand. This was necessary in a large number of cases in "Mac's Chapel" because the weight of the bulldozers would crush the old septic systems.

Setting our backpack and water down, we just stood there for a few minutes. The damage had looked terrible enough through the window of the van, but standing eye-to-eye with it, it became almost incomprehensible. As I slowly turned 360 degrees, I realized that we were positioned at the center of the full force of the tornado. It looked like a giant Mixmaster had been turned on high speed and churned everything. It was almost impossible to imagine the power of something that could wreak such havoc in a minute or two, and it was equally difficult to believe that anyone had survived; yet incredibly, there had been only two deaths in McDonald Chapel.

I could see the remains of the Open Door Church up on the hill by the highway. It had received a great deal of media attention. The cars in the parking lot had been flung down into a ravine. Inside, people had crouched in a hallway singing hymns while the building crumbled around them. Miraculously, everyone survived.

On a vacant corner across from the property we were to work on, lay a perfectly intact roof from someone's house. On another corner was only a foundation with debris piled on top. Before beginning work, I grabbed my camera and took panoramic shots of the devastation all around us. When the photos were developed, we discovered that they could not capture the enormity of the destruction.

It was hard to know where to begin on our house. The roof was gone, and two exterior walls were collapsed. They and all the interior walls, furniture, appliances, cabinets, food and clothing were intertwined in a gnarled heap on the foundation. Wiring, insulation, fencing and clothes were tangled and scattered everywhere. There was a constant crunching sound as volunteers walked about on broken glass. As on a Habitat build, everyone just picked a spot and started doing what they could do. Doing something helped us realize that we weren't simply enmeshed in a bad dream.

What a stark contrast this was to the joy we had felt only a week before as we had built homes for twenty happy families. It was a harsh outpicturing of the truth about the temporary nature of possessions, in which we invest so much of ourselves. In a half-minute they were gone! The scene brought back Anthony's prophetic words: "Your physical home can be taken from you any time. It is your spiritual home which will save you."

Sobering Work

Our assignment was to completely dismantle the house and haul it to the curbside, while sorting out anything that the family might want to salvage. What made the work even more arduous was that we had no rakes or wheelbarrows. It gave new meaning to the expression "working with your hands." We used pieces of walls or doors on which to transport debris to the curb. It was strange how the things you would least expect survived unscathed--a punch bowl and cups or dozens of home-canned preserves.

We quickly discovered that there is a reverence about this work. As we picked up knickknacks, toys, souvenirs, Bibles and, in this case, Seventh Day Adventist leaflets, we began to piece together a picture of the people who lived in the house. Every so often a cluster of volunteers would stop and gather around to look and shake their heads when pictures of the family (or at least someone's family) were found. We put them inside the their car to protect them from further rain, although all of the windows were shattered or blown out.

By midday, when members of the Birmingham Baptist Association came by with a hot chicken dinner, the curbside heap was beginning to sprawl. Larry and I took our lunches and sat on the steps of the foundation across the road. A camera crew from the Red Cross saw a picture in that and asked us to share with them how we had come to be there and why. Shortly after, a photographer from Peace Project also snapped our picture. Everyone was fascinated by the variety and numbers of volunteers--especially those from out of town--and extremely appreciative. An Allstate agent came over to our house and, when he realized we weren't from the area, thanked us on behalf of the family for being there.

Life Gives And Life Takes Away

As I was taking a moment to have a sip of water, I noticed an elderly, stooped, black gentleman standing by the foundation that we had sat on during lunch. His grandson stood by his side with his arm around his grandfather's shoulder as they both quietly surveyed the wreckage. I walked across the road, stood with them a moment, then asked if it had been his home. He answered that it was. "I'm so sorry," I offered. The old man shrugged his shoulders. Without rancor, and with the acceptance of one made wise by time, he replied, "That's life. Things are given and things are taken."

Actually, for him and numerous other residents of the racially mixed community of McDonald Chapel, it wasn't the first time that life had taken away. Forty-two years earlier, a powerful tornado had touched down in exactly the same spot, killing 22 people. Those who survived had had to rebuild from nothing. For some, the second time was once too many, and they would choose not to return.

The old man matter-of-factly described his ordeal of the week before. He had been sitting on his porch watching the strange lightning zigzagging horizontally across the black sky. He could hear the weather reports coming from the TV inside, but they were not forecasting that the storm would hit Mac's Chapel. He no sooner went inside and closed the door than he heard what sounded like a train on his front porch. He and his wife dropped to the floor in the middle of the living room as it hit, tearing away all of the house but leaving them unscathed.

Miracle In The Rubble

After lunch the van returned with rakes and wheelbarrows purchased by the Salvation Army. They definitely helped speed up the operation. More volunteers arrived in the afternoon, and we observed them struggling to adjust to what they were seeing, just as we had. Slowly, but surely, the floor of the house began coming into view.

As Larry walked across it, one foot slipped through a hole in the flooring. Steadying himself, he pulled his foot out and noticed a shoebox beneath the boards. He caught a glimpse of something moving. Reaching down and lifting out the box, Larry smiled and tilted it for everyone to see. Inside were three plump kittens, approximately two weeks old, who had obviously been well cared for by their mother in the midst of all the havoc. A few days later, I would see her crossing the road to the then-barren site looking for them.

Two of the young women immediately scooped the kittens up and took them to the corner of the lot to feed them water from bottle caps. One woman took two of them (which she immediately named Tornado and Survivor), and the other claimed the third. They both left to take their new charges home. Such are the little miracles that are encountered in the midst of a monumental catastrophe.

After most of the debris was cleared away from our house, we all stood watching as the remaining wall was knocked down. In this case, there was no cheer of accomplishment. It was a sobering task to raze someone's home.

The van picked us up about 3:30 and, after we checked out, we returned to the church, showered, ate a quick meal and went to bed early. We were physically and emotionally spent.

Stormy Weather

On Saturday, approximately 1000 volunteers (half of them Mormons) converged on the area to clean up. Unfortunately, halfway through the day, another severe thunderstorm came through, and everyone had to be evacuated.

Back at the church we changed out of our drenched clothes and spent time talking with some of the young parents who were decorating for the children's "50's party." It included pizza and root beer floats and roller-skating to music from the fifties. For parents who were obviously not around during that era, they did a pretty authentic job. Everyone was having a great time until the tornado siren sounded around 8 p.m. We put Ross's harness on him and joined the crowd in the music room that was below ground level. Most of the children were so intrigued by Ross they were distracted from concern about the weather. The storm passed without incident and, more accustomed to the scenario than we, everyone partied on. We went to bed.

Where Have All The Trees Gone?

Sunday afternoon following church, we decided to drive the 30-mile length of the storm track out to the community of Oak Grove, where the area all-grades school had been demolished. We were not the only ones who had that idea; but the slow line of traffic enabled us to take everything in.

The Rock Creek and Oak Grove areas had been heavily wooded, and almost all the trees had been downed, many of which were already cut up and stacked in piles along the roadside. It was difficult to distinguish where homes had been amidst the wasted landscape. Now and then we would see a wreathe staked in front of a foundation, and a chill would run through us.

When we arrived at the school, we parked and got out so I could take a picture. We talked awhile with members of an area Baptist church who were serving food and offering supplies to victims and volunteers. One man, a life-long resident, told us that coming home from work along the road a few days after the storm, he had become completely disoriented because of the missing trees, houses and other landmarks.

It was a story we would hear again and again. Besides the deaths of relatives and friends and the destruction of their homes, among the things most mourned by the victims and area residents was the loss of the trees. As we would see a year later when we returned, the newly rebuilt houses looked forlorn and lost on the barren land and, because of that, the communities would never look the same. Many people remarked that after the storm they were able to see houses and other landmarks that they never knew existed.

Side By Side

On Monday we were asked to help take apart one of two homes that had literally been sucked together. They belonged to elderly sisters, aged 82 and 90, who had lived next door to each other for 64 years. Most of what had been their homes was gone, except for the facing side walls, which now stood side by side, and the back hall and bathroom of the house we were working on, where one sister had cowered during the storm. The other one had been out of town.

We would hear numerous tales of people being saved by lying in their bathtubs with a mattress or blanket over them. Indeed, as we saw for ourselves, in most cases what remained of a house, if anything, were the interior hall and the bathroom, which is exactly where the weathermen advise people to go if they do not have a basement or shelter.

Turn Off The Gas

This was the first day we worked with Clay, an area resident who had been there almost every day for two weeks, using vacation time or volunteering during the day while holding down his night job. His motivation was simple: "I just love people, and these people need help." He was seldom seen without his chain saw in hand and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. We also worked with a woman, and a couple who later invited us to share Mother's Day with them. All three had taken the day off work because they felt they "had to be there."

Clay was happily chain-sawing sections of the main wall when I walked by and caught a whiff of gas. "I smell gas!" I yelled. Almost immediately Larry smelled it, too. We all decided we should move across the street. Larry stopped a passing car and asked the driver to tell the gas company workers up the street to come to our site.

Clay walked across to his brand new truck, sat down in the street behind it (a lit cigarette still in his mouth), and began sharpening his chain saw. Suddenly, there was a loud whooshing sound. Gas was blowing out of a pipe in the ground right in front of his truck. We all yelled at Clay to put out his cigarette, but before he understood what we were saying, the gas shut off. The company foreman informed us they had turned on the gas to check for leaks. Brilliant move!

The next day a van full of Methodists arrived from Fort Payne, North Carolina (about 90 miles away), to work on the other house. Each day for a week, the pastor had been shuttling a fresh crew to help with the clean-up. This group included several women in their early thirties who worked at an aerobics gym, and there was no doubt that they were in excellent physical condition. They carried beams and cement blocks like they were pieces of molding or a briefcase, and they only stopped for lunch or to take a sip of water. They even brought their own healthy food to eat instead of the more carbohydrate-rich Red Cross and Salvation Army meals.

The gas company foreman stopped by to say he had been observing the Methodist women working and he'd informed two of his crew that if they didn't step up their pace, he was going to fire them and hire one of the women in their place. His safety awareness may not have been the sharpest, but he did have a keen sense of humor.

A Glimmer Of Hope

The sisters had owned beautiful china and many knickknacks and keepsakes accumulated over their lifetimes. When we found things that were unbroken, we set them aside and cleaned them off as best we could. One afternoon, the 82-year-old sister came by and just stood for a while with an expressionless face as she watched us work. One of the volunteers took her by the arm and proudly showed her some of the items that had been salvaged. The woman shook her head sadly and said, "It's so hard to lose everything." There was nothing to say or do except hug her.

As our pile by the road grew and the remains of the two houses dimin­ished, we observed that a new roof and porch were already being constructed on a damaged house across the road. We were told that the owner was a builder by trade. After several days of tearing down, it was a hopeful sight to see something once again going up.

Order Out Of Chaos

The next day, we were assigned to begin working on the properties on the hillside along Xavier, the main road into McDonald Chapel. It was actually pretty amazing how quickly an orderly system evolved in the chaos.

Ricky Thacker, a Baptist minister whose church was close to Pratt City (the last community in Jefferson County to be hit) had been one of the first on the scene there, helping to cover roofs and take other stop-gap measures to minimize further damage. Because there had been no loss of life in Pratt City and the area was not as heavily wooded as others, volunteers were able to go in immediately. After coordinating that effort, Ricky was asked by Emergency Management to do the same thing the next day in Edgewater (after emergency crews had cleared the roads of trees and fallen wires), and the following day in Mac's Chapel where he then stayed for the duration of the clean-up phase.

Damage assessment and needs had to be determined for each property and a permit for demolition signed by the owners. Once that was procured, the property could be assigned to volunteers to follow through with whatever was necessary. In some areas of Mac's Chapel, many of the small, former mining-camp homes were rentals owned by absentee landlords. In a number of cases, it took months to contact them and secure permission. Meanwhile, there was plenty to keep all of us busy.

Up Hill, Down Hill

The first area to be cleared was adjacent to a corner lot where a man's brand new doublewide trailer had been sitting, ready to be mounted onto a foundation. The tornado blew it over to the next-door property--not in one piece, of course. The long black metal frame was looped around a shorn-off tree like a horseshoe around a stake. Large, downed trees were added into the mix of insulation, trailer materials and debris from other houses.

Two factors made the job particularly tedious--one was that the owner wanted us to try to determine what was reusable and stack it in a separate pile. The other was that the logs and rubble had to be hauled down a steep hill about 50-60 yards long. Then, of course, we had to walk back up and start all over again. Where were those Methodist ladies when we really needed them?

Those with chain saws cut up trees, while the rest of us picked up litter, raked, and loaded wheelbarrows, then took turns transporting them down and up the hill. I was embarrassed to even give the appearance of being tired when 72-year-old Helen, a full-time worker for the Baptist Association Medical Assistance Office, arrived and kept pace with us--with a constant smile and good humor!

We did receive a little comic relief from an elderly gentleman who showed up with a large flatbed truck outfitted with a winch. He instructed us to take the large pieces of debris only halfway down the hill and stack them on top of his cable. After a sufficient pile accumulated, he secured the cable and pulled the load down to the road. Unfortunately, more than half of it fell out along the way, therefore requiring us to collect it all again and carry it to the curb. Undaunted, he tried once more. However, when the cable snapped, without a word to anyone, he rolled it up, threw it on the bed of the truck and drove off--leaving us with yet another scattered mess to pick up.

In the late afternoon, just about the time we were all feeling like we would not accomplish our mission for the day, 30 University of Alabama students arrived and began bounding up and down the hill, making short work of the remains. Three cheers for youth!

Earlier in the day, Larry had helped knock down the walls of a house. Later, a bulldozer came and, in a few minutes, crunched and shoved the foundation down to the street. As I stood watching, tears welled up in my eyes because it didn't seem right; it was too impersonal. Somehow it seemed more respectful to take someone's home apart by hand.

Curbside Service

We waited for the Red Cross truck to come by with chicken dinners to take back to the trailer. Cooking was definitely not an option for that evening. The lunches, dinners and snacks provided by the Salvation Army and Red Cross were greatly appreciated. It would have been very difficult to put in those grueling hours in the increasingly hot weather (the end of April in Alabama) and have to worry about shopping for and preparing food.

It was our feeling, though, that it was somewhat inefficient for both services to come by within minutes of each other at every location. It would have made more sense for them to divide up the various sites. But since they didn't, we quickly learned to pick and choose between them according to our preference or need: one had the better lunch and the other the better dinner. One gave us bags of fruit, and the other munchies. One had coffee and soda, the other had water and juice. In addition to the Salvation Army and Red Cross, church groups and individuals circulated with food and drinks, and we could also stock up at the registration tent. Suffice it to say, we were well fed.

Reality Check

The next day we continued working our way along the houses on the hill. We got our first look at the interior of one that hadn't appeared too bad from the outside. The couch was standing on end. Part of the ceiling was hanging down. Insulation, broken glass, books, window shades and curtains were strewn all over the floor. We became aware that the days of seeing nothing but litter and mess had gradually dulled our senses. We were beginning to see it as the norm. As other volunteers would confirm, it was hard to shake the feeling that the owners were messy housekeepers, or to imagine that their houses were ever neat and orderly.

The same was true in regard to the victims. We only saw them in poorly fitting donated clothes, with their hair unkempt, bags under their eyes, looking tired and bedraggled. It was difficult to picture them bright-eyed, dressed up for work or church, with a suit or makeup on. It was hard to imagine them living normal lives before the tornado, sitting in front of a TV or working in their yards. Only when we saw a picture of them or their house from an earlier time did it truly register that everything had looked entirely different just a couple weeks before.

The victims themselves had to be reminded that ordinary life was taking place beyond the rubble. I remember comforting and consoling an older woman whose husband wanted her to accompany him to their grandson's ball game. She was feeling guilty about going because people were there working on her property. Strain and exhaustion were written all over her. I assured her it was very important that she go.

"Not only that," I added, "but you need to get away from here for awhile and allow yourself to do something normal."

"So, you really think it's okay?" she asked, seeking permission.

"Absolutely," I reiterated.

"Thank you," she said with obvious relief, as tears trickled down her face.

Another manifestation of this phenomenon was rather humorous. I was sitting on a log in front of a ten-foot pile of rubbish, finishing up my lunch that had been packed in a Styrofoam covered tray. After carefully placing my napkins and wrappers inside the tray so they wouldn't blow away, I stood up with my empty soda can and tray in hand and automatically looked around for a trash barrel. When I realized what I was doing, the incongruity between my actions and the fact that I was literally surrounded by garbage struck my funny bone. I lifted the soda can up high and loudly inquired, "Are we recycling?" This brought laughter from everyone around as they, too, saw the picture. Each day thereafter, I took special delight in watching new volunteers check their impulse to find a proper place to dispose of their trash.

The Ice Cream Angel

It was a long hot day, and everyone was beginning to wilt. Suddenly, we heard a sound reminiscent of our childhoods--the familiar jingle of an ice cream truck. A local volunteer knew the owner and had challenged him to do his part. He pulled up alongside the curb and pointed to the sign on the side of his truck, indicating which ice cream bars were free. Like little children, our faces broke out into wide grins as we all crowded around to make our selections. Reaching up to take a creamsicle (my childhood favorite) from his hand was like seeing myself in a snapshot from the past. What is it about an ice cream bar that can so magically lift our spirits and melt away our weariness? It was just what the doctor ordered. That ice cream man looked very much like an angel!

Still Smiling

While we were working next door to a forlorn-looking brick house missing its roof, I noticed a woman standing in front of it with a broad smile on her face as she talked with a volunteer. I walked over and introduced myself and asked if she owned the house behind her. Mariesha nodded affirmatively. "How can you smile?" I queried.

She responded quickly. "We're here, aren't we? The things can be replaced! I'm not going to whine and wring my hands. It doesn't change anything."

Mariesha survived the tornado in the bathroom; her son David was in a closet, and her husband crouched under the pool table in their front room. They were waiting for the insurance company to decide whether their house could be salvaged or would need to be demolished. I talked with Mariesha awhile longer and learned that her greatest sorrow was not over her house, but rather her next door neighbors "who didn't make it."

"I'd have gladly lost all I had in exchange for them," she added. Mariesha had frequently come home from her job at the bank to spend the lunch hour with her neighbor, Joy. She had recently given Joy a book of inspirational readings, and they often shared together about their faith. Joy and Woodrow Pratt had retired early the night of the storm, because they had plans for the next day. As they lay in bed, their house was swept under Mariesha's garage.

Mariesha, her husband, and their 17-year-old son David all searched for the Pratts for three hours in the dark and rain until they were forced to evacuate. The next morning, David found their neighbors' bodies. "It was God's grace and mercy not to leave just one of them," Mariesha remarked gratefully.

When Mariesha was able to call the bank where she worked, she asked for someone to contact her parents to let them know she was all right, and to have them come and get David. She felt he needed relief for awhile from the oppressive scene of destruction which was not only a constant reminder of finding the bodies of his neighbors, but also that his life had once again been turned upside down. Two Aprils prior, David had almost died from a brain abscess, the result of a bike accident that drove his nose through his brain. Mariesha had taken five months off from work to nurse him back to health, during which time the bank generously continued to pay her salary.

I was aware that David was in deep emotional pain as I worked alongside him. We talked quietly. "Maybe something good will come of this, do you think?" he asked.

I touched his arm and told him I believed it would, but that it might take a long time to see and understand it. "For now," I said, " you need to concentrate on taking one day at a time."

Feeling compelled to leave a symbol of my caring for this family that had so touched me, I returned a few days later with a jar of my blueberry jam. Finding no one home, I placed it with a note in the clearest spot I could find amid the shambles in the kitchen, never knowing until a year later whether Mariesha found it.

New Assignments

Work continued for a couple more days in Mac's Chapel, after which it was closed to volunteers so that the cranes and dump trucks could come in to remove the mountainous piles along the roads. The Baptist Association temporarily suspended their involvement, and the members who had worked for three weeks straight took time for much-needed rest and to regroup for the recovery phase.

We took a few days to regroup, also, catching up on rest and household business. We had received word that we were accepted to both the Jimmy Carter and Ed Schreyer Work Projects. Since we weren't sure how long we would be in Alabama, we forestalled our response. Realizing we, too, needed some normalcy, we indulged ourselves in an evening of square dancing.

Then, hoping we could be of further use, we contacted the Sylvan Springs Methodist Church situated midway along the storm track. It had sustained some damage to its sanctuary, but was operating a relief center from the fellowship hall. Ironically, the pastor and a large contingent of the congregation had left the day after the storm for a planned mission trip out of the country. Consequently, the youth leader found himself in charge of organizing response efforts in that area.

The first day, he assigned us to clear a piece of property on Rock Creek Road. The house, the basement and foundation of which were constructed of concrete blocks, had been picked up and slammed against a huge tree about ten feet away. Because the tree stopped it, the owner was able to salvage much of his furniture. He planned to have the rest of the house bulldozed to the road. Above ground level, the foundation was faced with bricks. Part of our job involved collecting and stacking good bricks and blocks.

That day we worked with Ron, a flight controller in the Air Force who was stationed in Montgomery and had driven up on his day off. Over lunch, he told us that he was in a transition period in his life, looking for something to give him a sense of purpose. When he heard about the tornado, he felt compelled to come. He had never done anything like that before, and he was deeply moved. It helped put his own pain in perspective, he confided.

The man who owned the house stopped by on his lunch hour and talked with us. Because he worked nights, he had not been home when the storm hit. His wife and son had sought refuge in a storage closet in the basement and both survived, though his wife had been injured when a concrete block fell on her head. They were extremely blessed.

On their street, only the house next door remained standing. On my way back from a trip to the "blue room" (one of the omnipresent portable toilets), I stopped to talk with the owner who was outside making repairs. He indicated where every home in the area had been--where now there was almost no trace of their existence. For one reason or another, almost no one had been home that night. "I probably wouldn't be alive if I had been home," he said. Pointing to the side of his house, he explained that shafts of splintered trees and wood from the other houses had been shot through it like spears.

When we were finished for the day, we drove up onto the ridge of Edgewater B, which looked down over Edgewater A (both former mining camps). The tornado had completely stripped the ridge. Neatly laid out where houses had once stood were the household items salvaged from each. Several men sat in chairs chatting, as though they were around a campfire. To protect their property from being stolen, they had been alternating nights sleeping in the van parked nearby. We thought we had become used to the sights and stories, but as we stood there we could only shake our heads in disbelief.

That evening there was a message on our voice mail informing us that the worst flood in 50 years had made a complete mess of the garage on our camp property in New Hampshire. Unable to entertain any more thoughts of disasters, we shrugged our shoulders. We'll deal with it when we have to, we decided. At least by then, we reasoned, it will be dry. Tomorrow there will be more for us to do here.