by Jerry Apps
The rains in central Wisconsin had stopped in mid-summer, and now the hot August sun dried out the countryside and challenged the corn, soybeans, and vegetable crops that were not irrigated. Anyone who did not have irrigation, and that included small vegetable farmers such as Ambrose Adler, saw their pumpkins, squash, and cucumbers wither, their sweet corn leaves curl, and their potato vines turn brown. With no rain for weeks, Ambrose kept his vegetable stand open only three days a week as he didn’t have enough produce to keep it well stocked.
The temperature each day climbed into the nineties, and only dropped into the seventies in the evening. To add to the increasingly dry conditions, a stiff southwest wind blew each day, helping to further dry the countryside, turning grass brown, drying up cow pastures, and even killing little trees, especially the pine trees that a few tree farmers in the area had planted in the spring. The air was filled with dust, dirty brown dust that was picked up by the wind and turned the sky the color of chocolate by late afternoon. Dust sifted through open windows and gathered on furniture. Dust gathered on the corn leaves, on the soybean leaves, on the goldenrods that struggled to bloom, on the brown grass alongside the highways, on the leaves of the oaks and the maples. Dirty brown dust everywhere.
Farmers in the Link Lake community who attended the Church of the Holy Redeemed and the Baptist and the Methodist churches prayed for rain on Sunday mornings and looked to the west every evening for an answer to their prayers. The dry weather continued. One week. Two weeks. Three weeks. Everyone kept their eye on the sky every evening, and they listened to the NOAA weather forecasts, watched the TV weather news, and heard nothing but the same forecast, day after miserable hot, dry, dusty day.
The talk at the Eat Well never strayed from the weather. Same conversation at every table every morning.
“Do you remember anything like this?”
“Reminds me of the 1930s.”
“Will it ever end?”
“Damn dust is gettin’ to me.”
“Hot wind keeps blowin’ every day. Every damn day.”
Oscar and Fred talked about it.
“You remember back in the 1950s when we had a stretch of hot dry weather like this, Fred?” asked Oscar Anderson.
“I do. I remember cutting our second crop of alfalfa; first crop had been decent, but the second crop, well, I don’t think we got more than 150 bales off of twenty acres. Worst damn yield of hay I ever had.”
“That dry spell was a lot like this one. Hot sun every day. Damn old wind blowing out of the southwest that dried up everything that wasn’t already dried up.”
“Hate to change the subject, Fred, knowing how well we all like to complain about the weather, but you heard anything more about the sand mine?”
“Nope, ain’t heard one word. Not one single word. All anybody talks about is the drought.”
“You see any protestors at the park?”
“Nope, everything is quiet there since the big explosion.”
“Well, I don’t like it. I’ll bet you my bottom dollar, Fred, that mining company is gonna come in here, cut down our Trail Marker Oak, start diggin’ a big hole in the park, and stir up more dust than we got in the air right now. Read somewhere that these sand mines stir up a lot of dust— and dangerous dust, too. The kind that’ll get in your lungs and raise hell with your breathin’, eventually kill you.”
“Really. I didn’t know that,” said Fred.
“Well, it’s the truth. We’re in for some tough times.”
“Can’t believe they could get much worse than they are right now, what with this drought and hot wind blowin’ every day.”
“You just wait, Fred. Just wait. What’s goin’ on right now is nothing compared to when that sand mine opens. You just wait and see if I ain’t right.”
The two old men sat quietly for a time, sipping their coffee. Fred ran his finger over the arm of the empty chair at their table, removing a coat of fine dust.
“When do you suspect it’ll rain?” asked Fred, breaking the silence.
“Oh, it’ll rain. Always does. Hope we don’t have a big storm.”
“Geez, Oscar. One minute you’re complaining about how dry it is and the next you’re worried that if it does rain we’ll have a storm.”
“Only speaking the truth, Fred. The truth that comes from eighty years of livin’ in this place.”
At six on a September morning the following week, it was already eighty degrees with a weather forecast of high nineties, maybe even one hundred degrees. Fred and Oscar had settled into their chairs at the Eat Well and said little or nothing since arriving. They sat staring out the window enjoying the cool air-conditioned room, for neither of them had air-conditioning in their farm homes.
Oscar broke the silence. “Do you know what I saw this morning on my drive in to town?”
“Let’s see, you saw a dried-up cornfield, a dried-up soybean field, a few dead trees, and a deer walked across the road in front of you. Oh, you maybe also saw a bald eagle feasting on a road-killed raccoon. How am I doin’?” said Fred.
“I’ll give you this, you got one helluva imagination.”
“Got to be good for something.”
“So you wanna hear about what I saw?”
“I suppose you’re gonna tell me whether I wanna hear it or not,” said Fred.
“Well, you wanna hear about it or do you just wanna sit there grumpin’ and sippin’ on your coffee and worrying about the drought?”
“Go ahead, I’m all ears,” said Fred.
“I saw a bank of clouds just off the horizon to the west.”
“You saw a bank of clouds?”
“That’s what I said. I saw a big bank of clouds just climbing over the horizon.”
“So what’s so great about that? Almost every day a cloud or two passes overhead, sometimes more than one or two, sometimes maybe three or four, or even eight or ten.”
“Fred, what I saw isn’t your everyday set of dry weather clouds. It looks like a storm is brewin’.”
“Weather people didn’t say anything about a storm. I listened this morning. All they said is there was a possibility of scattered thunderstorms. They’ve been sayin’ that every day lately, but they never come. It never rains. Just never gets around to rainin’ anymore.”
“You mark my word, Fred. There’s a storm a comin’ our way.”
“Your word is marked,” said Fred, smiling. “I hope you’re right though. We really do need a soaking rain. Can’t remember when we had a good rain.”
“You coming to the historical society lunch this noon?” asked Oscar.
“Nope, I’m gonna have to miss it this year. My back fence is fallin’ down and my neighbor says I better get it fixed or he’ll hire someone to fix it and send me the bill.”
“Yeah, figured I’d stay home too. That fancy food doesn’t agree with me.”
47
Storm
Each year, the Link Lake Historical Society held their annual late summer luncheon at the Link Lake Supper Club; this year was to be no exception. Emily would have preferred to hold the meeting elsewhere, but she knew of no other place close by that was as nice as the Link Lake Supper Club and large enough to hold the group. Emily Higgins and the planning committee had organized a special luncheon this year to commemorate all the hard work the members had done in helping the Link Lake citizens become aware of the perils of a sand mine coming to town and the travesty it would be to cut down the Trail Marker Oak. She had invited the members of the Link Lake High School Nature Club to come as well to applaud them for helping to put up the eagle cam, one of the most successful activities the historical society had ever supported. And of course a discussion of the cemetery walk and the bank robbery reenactment were on the agenda as well, with the appropriate committees giving reports and receiving praise for their efforts.
Emily had heard the weather forecast just prior to driving over to the supper club: “Possibility of severe thunderstorms for Ames County with hi
gh winds and hail.” Like everyone else in Link Lake, Emily looked forward to some much-needed rain; she hoped the rains would come and the weather people were wrong about the high winds and hail. She saw the clouds boiling up in the west as she drove from the historical society headquarters down Main Street and then to the Link Lake Supper Club. She had seen clouds like this before; sometimes they resulted in strong storms, sometimes in rain, and sometimes nothing at all as the clouds moved north or south and passed Link Lake entirely.
With the invited guests, some fifty people were in attendance for the annual noon luncheon, one of the group’s largest crowds in recent memory. Even Ambrose Adler had walked to Link Lake so he could attend the event.
Marilyn Jones remained in her office as the group enjoyed their luncheon and the conversation. When the dishes were cleared and fresh cups of coffee poured, Emily walked to the podium with a sheaf of notes in hand. Emily was well organized and planned everything down to the last detail. She didn’t like surprises.
All Emily got to say was “Welcome,” before a tremendous flash of lightning followed by a clap of thunder that rattled the supper club windows halted the proceedings. The lights flickered once and then went out. And the room was quiet.
Marilyn Jones burst from her office, her face pale.
“May I have your attention, please,” she said in a loud voice. “I just heard on my weather radio that a tornado is headed our way. It touched down in Plainfield and will be here in fifteen minutes. Everyone gather in the middle of the room, away from the windows, and get under the tables,” Marilyn yelled.
“Wait, wait,” said Emily Higgins in her usual far-reaching voice. “I have a better idea. Some of you will remember that this place was once a stagecoach stop and roadhouse. What you don’t know is the builders of this place also constructed an underground storm shelter. Follow me!”
Marilyn Jones stood with a mystified look on her face. She did not know the history of her supper club; indeed, she had never been interested in it.
“After me,” said Emily as people, most of them with frightened looks on their faces, trailed behind her out a side door and a couple hundred feet away to a tangle of wild berry bushes.
“If I remember correctly, there should be a metal trap door right about here,” Emily said. “I need a little help clearing away this tangle of berry bushes.”
Several high school students stepped forward and began tugging and pulling at the berry bushes, while flashes of lightning and ear-splitting thunder continued to fill the air. The first big drops of rain began falling as Emily announced, “We’ve found it. Here’s the trap door.”
“It’s rusted shut,” one of the high school students said as he tugged on the latch.
Several other students helped him, and the door finally squealed open, revealing a set of stairs to an underground chamber. One after another, members of the historical society and the nature club slowly climbed down the soon to be quite crowded and very musty underground chamber. As the high school students, with the help of their teacher, slowly let down the metal door, the group could hear what sounded like the approach of a train. Louder and louder. And the ground began shaking.
It was completely dark in the crowded room until several people removed their cell phones from their pockets, providing a little light. Some began complaining about the cobwebs and the musty smell, but most concentrated on what they heard even though the sound was muffled by several feet of soil and an iron trap door. Three or four of the older members of the historical society had been in tornados before, and the sound of the wind brought back memories of devastating destruction, injury, and even death.
After a few minutes—quiet. Extreme quiet.
“Should we try the door?” one of the students asked.
“Let’s wait a few more minutes,” said Emily, “to make sure the storm has passed.”
When the door was finally opened, and people crawled up the steps to the outdoors, they walked into a downpour of rain.
“Oh, my God,” said Marilyn Jones when she saw the devastation to the supper club.
An enormous oak tree had fallen on the back part of the building, directly over her office. Had she been in her office she would have been severely injured, if not killed. The tornado tore the roof off the dining room; people saw pieces of roofing floating in the lake. An enormous white pine tree had snapped off and its trunk had pierced the front door of the supper club.
People stood in the rain, no one saying anything, not believing what they were seeing. Except for the falling rain, it was quiet. No wind. No thunder.
“Is everyone okay?” Emily Higgins asked.
Heads were nodding in the affirmative.
Marilyn Jones, with tears streaming from her eyes, found Emily and took her hand.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much. Thank you for remembering the storm shelter.”
“You are welcome,” said Emily. Marilyn Jones gave Emily Higgins a big hug.
48
Aftermath
Historical society members and representatives from the high school nature club stood in the rain, numb, staring at the destruction of the Link Lake Supper Club. In less than five minutes they heard the wail of sirens and soon the two Link Lake fire trucks appeared, followed by the squad car.
“Is anyone injured?” yelled Fire Chief Henry Watkins. “Is anyone hurt?”
“I . . . I don’t believe so, Henry,” answered Emily. “We’re shaken a bit. But I believe beyond being soaked to our skins, we’re okay.”
Volunteer firefighters soon began dragging huge tarps from one of the trucks and with the assistance of historical society members and nature club students they began spreading the tarps over the exposed parts of the supper club, which was most of it, as the entire roof had been blown off.
Watkins walked over to where Marilyn Jones stood staring at the destruction.
“Are you okay, Miss Jones?” asked Watkins as he placed a spare firefighter’s jacket around her shoulders.
“Everything is gone . . . all gone. Years of work . . . gone. Just like that, gone.” Tears mixed with raindrops ran down Marilyn’s face.
“I’m sorry,” said Watkins. “The supper club took the worst of the storm; a few trees are down here and there around town and the power is out. But it looks like the tornado hit your building straight on and then skipped across the lake and disappeared. That’s how these storms work.”
“But we’re all safe,” said Marilyn. “I can’t image how many of us would have been hurt if we’d stayed in the building.”
“Where’d you go?” asked Watkins, not aware of any secure shelter nearby.
“See over there?” Marilyn pointed to a huge wild berry patch that seemed to have the middle torn out of it. “In that berry patch is an iron door leading to an old storm shelter that Emily Higgins knew about. Emily is the reason none of us was hurt.”
“Well, you don’t say,” said Watkins, knowing full well, as did everyone in Link Lake, that Marilyn Jones had never had anything good to say about Emily Higgins.
As quickly as the storm arrived, it departed. The clouds cleared and the sun came out. The firefighters, historical society members, and the students worked for a couple hours, creating a temporary roof over the dining room with blue tarps.
“Thank you all so much,” said Marilyn as everyone began drifting off toward their cars—the parking lot had not been touched by the tornado. After everyone had left, Marilyn, not knowing what to do, went back to the storm shelter, pulled open the trap door, and left it open, which provided a little light in the cramped space where everyone had sat out the tornado. She climbed down the stairs and with the added light of her cell phone looked around. On a little shelf in the back she spotted a metal box, covered with dust. She picked it up and once outside, she opened it. She took out photos of when she and her sister Gloria were little girls. There were early photos of the supper club, and there were photos of her parents, wedding photos th
ey appeared to be, taken in front of the Trail Marker Oak. She also found a newspaper clipping, with a wedding photo, and the caption, “Fred and Barbara Jones, longtime visitors to Link Lake from Chicago, were married this past Saturday in front of the Trail Marker Oak at Increase Joseph Community Park in Link Lake. This old tree has become a popular place for young couples to marry, as some believe that the tree, which was a guidepost for earlier travelers, would point the way toward a happy marriage as well.”
Marilyn thought, My parents knew about this storm shelter. They must have carried this box into the shelter before another storm. And they were married in front of the Trail Marker Oak—I never knew that. I can’t let anybody see this. I did not know my parents had such a connection to that old Trail Marker Oak. I just can’t believe it.
Ambrose Adler started walking toward his farm. He remembered another tornado that had torn through the north side of Link Lake back in the 1970s, uprooting many trees and destroying three cattle barns just out of town. There were no injuries. At least not serious. The storm hit in the middle of the night, around midnight. Old Jesse DeWitt was driving home from the Link Lake Tap with a little more than he could handle. On the back road to his farm, which is where the tornado first struck, a tree limb came crashing down, piercing the windshield of his old 1950 Chevrolet and ending up on the seat right beside him. People found him in the car the following morning muttering something about how God’s wrath had nearly struck him down. After that fateful night, Jesse DeWitt never took another drink.
Ambrose also thought about the close call they had just had. Without Emily Higgins knowing about the old storm cellar there certainly would have been injuries, even deaths, when the roof blew off the supper club and debris and broken glass were flying everywhere. Ambrose was also surprised and even a little amazed at the kind words Marilyn Jones had for Emily. Have we seen a Marilyn no one has seen before? Ambrose thought. Is there more to this woman than the harddriving businessperson she likes to portray?