Last Friday afternoon the town of Marshall and our surrounding region got hit with a devastating storm. When the sirens began wailing and the sky turned a nasty green, we headed for our basement with flashlights and candles. After the 80-mile/hour winds had passed, after the hail stopped beating on our house, and after the rain let up, we stumbled outside, amazed to see our neighbor's tall old elm tree pulled out by the roots and stretched on its side, totally blocking our street. Dazed, we wandered around talking to neighbors, all of us assessing the property damage, picking up chunks of hail the size of golf balls. Almost immediately, we all began cleaning up downed tree limbs, and buzz saws whined. (For disaster photos and storm stories, see www.marshallindependent.com)
Since then, the clean-up has been constant with pick-ups, dump trucks and large flat-bed trucks rumbling by stacked high with tree limbs on their way to the city compost site. The other constant activity? Storytelling. We ask each other the same questions. Where were you? How's your home? Did you lose any trees? Did you have any damage? And then the stories start. The retired doctor who was driving in his van when the storm hit and had to dodge falling trees. The honeymoon couple who returned to their farm to discover all the outbuildings along with the ducks, geese, chickens and cows had disappeared, only their farmhouse left standing. On and on.
In 1993 when Marshall was pounded by torrential rains and hail, the storm sewers were overwhelmed and many people had sewage back-up in their basements. As we were cleaning up from that storm, a writer friend gave me a copy of the wonderful novel Labrador by Kathryn Davis. This quote from a slice of dialogue stuck with me: "Luck and disaster are the same thing, and that thing is the gift of motion." It ended up on our fridge door, giving us a sense of hope as we sloshed around our basement in our Wellies. That storm brought loss to many, but it also gave us "the gift of motion" in countless ways.
What memorable storm stories, poems or essays do you tell? What storm stories have you found to be compelling reading? Storm stories have built-in tension, conflict, trouble, strong images, intense dialogue, colorful characters. And there's a sharply defined story arc, a "before-during-and-after" sequence. We may have survived, but we're changed, sometimes in ways we don't realize for quite a while.
Just as much as we need to clean up the tree limbs in our yards, we need to tell each other our storm stories, our stories of loss, of devastation, of mourning and letting go, of survival. It's an essential part of being human. One of my favorite storm poems is "How to Tell a Tornado" by Howard Mohr, former SMSU professor, (from his book with that same title,) which I post here with his permission (thanks, Howard!). The shape of this poem on the page, the vivid images, and the technique of treating a "hot" subject, such as a tornado, with understatement allow the reader to absorb the full impact of such an event.
HOW TO TELL A TORNADO
Listen for noises.
If you do not live
near railroad tracks,
the freight train you hear
is not the Northern Pacific
lost in the storm:
that is a tornado
doing imitations of itself.
One of its favorite sounds
is no sound.
After the high wind,
and before the freight train,
there is a pocket of nothing:
this is when you think
everything has stopped:
but do not be fooled.
Leave it all behind
except for a candle
and take to the cellar.
Afterwards
if straws are imbedded
in trees without leaves,
and your house--except
for the unbroken bathroom mirror--
has vanished without a trace,
and you are naked
except for the right leg of your pants,
you can safely assume
that a tornado
has gone through your life
without touching it.
(Published by Minnesota Public Radio, Inc.)
Howard Mohr wrote the must-read (especially if you live or travel in Minnesota) best-selling book How to Talk Minnesotan, which is approaching its 25th anniversary of publication by Penguin/Putnam, with another printing imminent. It was also turned into a wonderful musical with all original music, which was performed at SMSU and then up in the Twin Cities for a long time. We love to play the soundtrack on CD, and two of my favorite songs are "Hotdish Hallejuah" and "Minnesota Men."
Mohr also wrote the entertaining book A Minnesota Book of Days (And a Few Nights), which I highly recommend.
For the past month, I've enjoyed taking a sabbatical from the blog, traveling, gardening, biking and doing other summer activities, but it's good to be back posting on Fly-over Country. Thanks much to all of you who have visited the blog and emailed me your comments. I appreciate your feedback!
Since then, the clean-up has been constant with pick-ups, dump trucks and large flat-bed trucks rumbling by stacked high with tree limbs on their way to the city compost site. The other constant activity? Storytelling. We ask each other the same questions. Where were you? How's your home? Did you lose any trees? Did you have any damage? And then the stories start. The retired doctor who was driving in his van when the storm hit and had to dodge falling trees. The honeymoon couple who returned to their farm to discover all the outbuildings along with the ducks, geese, chickens and cows had disappeared, only their farmhouse left standing. On and on.
In 1993 when Marshall was pounded by torrential rains and hail, the storm sewers were overwhelmed and many people had sewage back-up in their basements. As we were cleaning up from that storm, a writer friend gave me a copy of the wonderful novel Labrador by Kathryn Davis. This quote from a slice of dialogue stuck with me: "Luck and disaster are the same thing, and that thing is the gift of motion." It ended up on our fridge door, giving us a sense of hope as we sloshed around our basement in our Wellies. That storm brought loss to many, but it also gave us "the gift of motion" in countless ways.
What memorable storm stories, poems or essays do you tell? What storm stories have you found to be compelling reading? Storm stories have built-in tension, conflict, trouble, strong images, intense dialogue, colorful characters. And there's a sharply defined story arc, a "before-during-and-after" sequence. We may have survived, but we're changed, sometimes in ways we don't realize for quite a while.
Just as much as we need to clean up the tree limbs in our yards, we need to tell each other our storm stories, our stories of loss, of devastation, of mourning and letting go, of survival. It's an essential part of being human. One of my favorite storm poems is "How to Tell a Tornado" by Howard Mohr, former SMSU professor, (from his book with that same title,) which I post here with his permission (thanks, Howard!). The shape of this poem on the page, the vivid images, and the technique of treating a "hot" subject, such as a tornado, with understatement allow the reader to absorb the full impact of such an event.
HOW TO TELL A TORNADO
Listen for noises.
If you do not live
near railroad tracks,
the freight train you hear
is not the Northern Pacific
lost in the storm:
that is a tornado
doing imitations of itself.
One of its favorite sounds
is no sound.
After the high wind,
and before the freight train,
there is a pocket of nothing:
this is when you think
everything has stopped:
but do not be fooled.
Leave it all behind
except for a candle
and take to the cellar.
Afterwards
if straws are imbedded
in trees without leaves,
and your house--except
for the unbroken bathroom mirror--
has vanished without a trace,
and you are naked
except for the right leg of your pants,
you can safely assume
that a tornado
has gone through your life
without touching it.
(Published by Minnesota Public Radio, Inc.)
Howard Mohr wrote the must-read (especially if you live or travel in Minnesota) best-selling book How to Talk Minnesotan, which is approaching its 25th anniversary of publication by Penguin/Putnam, with another printing imminent. It was also turned into a wonderful musical with all original music, which was performed at SMSU and then up in the Twin Cities for a long time. We love to play the soundtrack on CD, and two of my favorite songs are "Hotdish Hallejuah" and "Minnesota Men."
Mohr also wrote the entertaining book A Minnesota Book of Days (And a Few Nights), which I highly recommend.
For the past month, I've enjoyed taking a sabbatical from the blog, traveling, gardening, biking and doing other summer activities, but it's good to be back posting on Fly-over Country. Thanks much to all of you who have visited the blog and emailed me your comments. I appreciate your feedback!
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