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By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff Writer
Maybe it was the gloom of the morning; maybe it was the foreboding of the inevitability of that least favorite month of mine, February. Maybe I knew somehow, even before I looked at my calendar, that it was two months since the sky roared.
Whatever the reason I went to Pretty Branch Lane the other day, Dog didn’t care. He seemed genuinely happy to see me, although I doubt he remembered our first acquaintance.
I met Dog the day the tornado smashed so many homes and lives in Armour, Sandyfield and Riegelwood. We met several other times as I went to the scene of the disaster. Dog lives on Pretty Branch Lane, down at the end. His family’s home, near as I can tell, was one of those the tornado just teased in the manner of a flirtatious prom queen, then left alone, moving across the dance floor to break someone else’s heart.
Dog is a hound-mix, the type of beast with whom I usually become fast friends. He was no exception to this rule, and appreciates a head rub and a belly scratch. Despite the horror that lay about what had been a neighborhood, Dog was his usual self on that November day, just as he was on that January morning. He checked every person he met, making sure they were not intent on mischief. He isn’t a big, intimidating dog, and I doubt he’d bite a biscuit, but many neighborhoods have dogs like Dog, the combination of a Wal-mart greeter and a security guard.
Having done his duty and made sure I was harmless, Dog accepted his due and wagged his tail. For Dog, life was going on. But for a lot of folks, I’m not sure how it can.
As I drove down the potholed lane, I noticed how much had changed since Nov. 16, and how much was the same. Gone were the piles of debris, the bent steel and broken glass and sopping stuffed animals and once-comfortable furniture.
Instead of mobile homes, white storage units stand where people used to live. I doubt most folks in the area ever paid much attention to the ubiquitous “pods” before Nov. 16. I’m sure none of them thought their homes would someday be reduced to what could be stuffed into a big white box.
Somehow, the absence of the familiar piles of homes turned into garbage was more shocking, more obscene, than the crumpled homes pushed and pulled and tossed around like jimcrack dime-store toys.
As I knew I would, I stopped where Mike Brown and his family lived. Nothing remains of his home but a pumphouse, a pod and a piece of machinery. There was a roll of wire placed neatly atop some cinderblocks, a reminder of how he made a living. Mike lived there with his mom and stepfather, his daughter Cheyenne, and two dogs.
Cheyenne was the only one in their mobile home who survived that morning.
Whether it was some genetic Celtic memory, or just the need to do something to show my respect, I left a stone atop the pile of blocks that once was part of a home. It wasn’t much of a cairn, but it meant I remembered.
There were rusted woodchisels in the January mud, chisels I noticed when I first walked across the site week s ago. That, too, was disturbing, because I recognized the chisels as much finer tools than any I own; they were tools to be cared for, oiled and sharpened and carefully stored, not left to rust in the ridden-over remains of a disaster area.
That patch of mud and broken concrete was once a home, with a lawn and a fenced-in yard and a good porch where Mike and Cheyenne and two dogs named Duke and Jane played and napped and celebrated birthdays and holidays. It was a home where Tim and Mary Mai could enjoy the pride of watching Cheyenne, their grandchild, satisfied that there was still some good in the world, as anyone who ever looks in a child’s eyes must realize.
But all that was gone.
I’m not sure why the blank, bare yards crisscrossed by tiretracks, guarded by solitary, unemotional storage pods, bothered me so much the other day. I guess it could have been because Dog was happily tearing into a bag of trash left beside a garbage can, intent on finding something that smelled, in his opinion, divine.
Maybe there was something still stirring in my mind about the meeting I attended the other night, when I saw folks still wearing the lost, frightened, overwhelmed expressions they wore in the hours after the tornado struck. Maybe I just wanted to pay my respects to Mike and his family.
I can’t say why I went back to Pretty Branch Lane the other day, but despite the sadness reflected in the day’s gray skies, I saw hope, too.
Most of the people weren’t home; they were at work, so at least that part of their routine had returned.
Normally the sight of a discarded Christmas tree makes me melancholy, but not this time. Someone’s old tree was carted off to the edge of the nearly denuded woods, and birds were making early reservations for the spring nesting season.
A few weeks ago, someone put some effort into raising that tree, decorating it, and placing presents underneath it on Christmas morning. Despite the tragedy of Nov. 16, someone had guts and determination enough to stand up and make that one little gesture of defiance, refusing to give in to the death and destruction of that morning.
As I bid Dog goodbye, and admonished him to stay out of the road and trashcans, I passed someone picking up a few pieces of trash from their front yard.
The scraps weren’t much – maybe a snack-wrapper, or a cigarette pack – but this was his yard, his home, and his place. Such as it is, the fellow is proud of his home.
No tornado can take that away.
The man watched me as I drove out; by now, he’s probably used to strangers driving in and out of his neighborhood. We waved at each other, and he went back to work.
Dog wagged his tail one last time, then went back to the garbage I’m sure someone will cuss about when they see their driveway.
Eventually, birds will nest in that old Christmas tree. The ruts from landmovers will fade away or be smoothed over, covered in new grass. Volunteers from churches and other groups will begin building new homes for people.
Who knows but what Cheyenne may even be able to roll in the grass again with a happy dog.
As hard as it may be, folks along Pretty Branch Lane and Holly Tree Lane will go on.
I just hope Dog is still there to make sure strangers are well-behaved.
Weaver is a staff writer at the News Reporter. He may be reached by calling 642-4104, ext. 227, or via e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreportir.biz.
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