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One Windy Day
 
It was a normal day at school, nothing out of the ordinary. Mary Jane, Arlene and Susan chased Richard, Arthur and myself into the boys' restroom where we held up refuge. Of course, anyone would recognize the preadolescent ritual of affection that they had for us. If we were caught, these lovely, fair and delicate rose pedals of society would lay blows to our shins with their patent leather shoes. At the close of the day, it was such a relief to see the school bus waiting for us. The three of us climbed aboard and took our seats in the back of the vehicle. Arlene got on board, but posed no threat; she was out numbered since Susan and Mary Jane always walked home from school.
 
This afternoon, the ride home could not really be considered normal. Well, of course, we did our usual things of throwing spitwads and paper airplanes between the bus driver's glances in the rearview mirror. What made it different was that the bus was rocking back and forth from side to side as we drove down the country road. We determined that it must be the way the wind was blowing. The telephone and power lines whipped around resembling the large jump rope the girls would use at recess.
 
When the bus came to a halt in front of our farm house, my brother Lonnie, his friend Stanley and I all stomped down the steps of the bus. I am not real certain of the meaning of this ritual either. It could possibly mean that the louder the stomping the happier you were that school was over for the day, or something like that.
 
As soon as we stepped to the outside, we felt the force of this wind that gave the bus driver such a frightened look on his face. Lonnie and Stanley grabbed the corners of their unzipped coats and reached their arms up and over their heads forming a sail. Stanley wasn't very big anyway and the very second the mighty gust hit him, he was lifted into the air and carried to the other side of the road where he came to rest in the drain ditch. We noticed that the gust was becoming stronger; it was making it difficult for all of us to even stand in place without our “sails”. Stanley hurried on home.
Momma must have been watching our antics and became concerned because she had us come inside the house. In a short time the house became dark because of the loss of power. We could hear the wind beat against the windows with a roar. Mom opened a window, at the time I guessed that she just wanted to hear what was happening. Now I am aware that unless the windows are slightly cracked, the force can actually cause an implosion.
 
Momma had my two brothers and myself all huddled together in the living room. We could hear the roar of the wind. I could tell Momma was scared because she started praying.
 
Her prayer was interrupted by a noise that sounded like an explosion. We all rushed to the window and viewed the final phase of our barn being deposited on the boundary fence between the Hansen's farm and our's.
 
The barn was originally built by my great grandfather when he had homesteaded the section before he parceled the land and sold most of it. The barn was a tribute to pioneer spirit and ingenuity; built entirely without nails. Each board was carefully drilled and fitted with the wooden pegs that held the structure together. The barn never had a foundation and Dad was concerned that the sagging on the one side could get worse if not corrected. He had lifted the barn with hydraulic jacks and the building was setting atop some cement blocks awaiting the pouring of the cement foundation. The wind came under the building and lifted it into the air causing the four walls to collapse inward. It was actually the hayloft portion that was turned upside down onto the ground.
 
The next day, as we drove through the town, we noticed more of the destruction. It seemed that every where I looked trees were laying flat and the roots exposed to the outside world. A car parked next to the sidewalk was raised into the air like it had been on a hydraulic hoist. The roots were suspending the vehicle in the air. The sidewalk was broken and crumbled where the roots sprang forth from the depths below.
 
When the weekend came, our family started the clean up. I noticed that there was a huge hole in the bottom of our family's boat. It seemed to me that this was the end of the family's outings and pleasure trips. All I could think was how much I liked to go boating, and those trips seemed so remote now.
 
Lonnie and I were both old enough to help. I was nine and Lonnie was eight. My youngest brother, Danny, had to just stay in the house since he was only four. We were each armed with crowbars and claw hammers. Our mission was to disassemble the barn and stack the wood in a pile to be used for fire wood.
 
I imagined that I was an archeologist on an expedition. I had been searching for many years for this vast treasure. My studies indicated that I was so very close to making my discovery. I took the pry bar and wedged it into the unpainted, graying wood and it broke revealing the prize that I had spent my entire life in search of. The Egyptian tomb of the chickens. These chickens were unlike the poultry of our day. I hooked the end of the bar under the wire cage and heard the metal snap. Now for the first time I will be able to view this creature that has only been mentioned in the annals of time. I reached in and pulled out the mummified body. It was flat and round and quite thin and the first thing that came to mind was that it could be easily served on a platter.
 
“Hey Lonnie, this one can still fly,” I said as I hurled the spinning object at my younger brother. It glided through the air and came to rest near his feet. My brother picked up the poultry pancake and heaved it back in my direction. Our newly invented Olympic game was soon interrupted as Dad redirected us back to the task at hand.
 
In retrospect, neither my brother nor I sensed any of the danger that had hovered over us during this segment of our history. I can only feel very thankful to be alive.