“Sometimes you see how humanity can rise above any kind of cultural ills and hate that a person’s capacity to love and communicate and forgive can be bigger than anything else.” ~ Viola Davis
It’s still so dang cold in Kentucky on this second day of April that even the little daffodils turned pale. Not really, but they do have their little heads turned down because it’s gloomy. Of course, this being Kentucky, we’re due a 70 degree day tomorrow, and naturally, that comes with a severe forecast because it’s going to be forty degrees colder on Wednesday. Lest we forget it was this time of year in 1974 when the great tornado outbreak happened. I remember that day so clearly. I was nine. Mom had gone to Lexington for a doctor’s appointment. Mom in Lexington meant she’d shop the whole day because, back then, we didn’t have the easy access to goods – or even travel to and from a larger town or city – like we do now. After school I went to Mamaw’s. I remember hearing news on the radio about tornados touching down all through the Ohio Valley. Dad picked me up after work, and we went home to Malone. I think he mowed the yard and I rode my bike. I had a red faux leather jacket that I’d worn all day. I loved it. It was cloudy but I don’t remember it raining. The evening wore on, but mom didn’t come home. Dad and I had dinner, but mom didn’t appear. Dad and I watched the evening news with horrible footage from Xenia. Mom still wasn’t home. I began to worry. All I knew was that violent storms were erupting in the general vicinity of mom and we’d not heard from her since she left that morning. A girl can only ride her bike so much to take her mind off things, ya know? I was getting tired by this point. Finally, at dusk, she pulled in the driveway. The sky was mean. I was scared. She was perfectly okay. We fared better than thousands of people that day, and I’m still grateful for that.