Tornado Video Resembles Paul Huffman’s Famous Twin-Funnels Photo from the 1965 Palm Sunday Outbreak

On April 11, 1965, Elkhart Truth photographer Paul Huffman parked his vehicle by the side of US 33 northwest of Goshen, Indiana, and began snapping pictures of a tornado passing within a half-mile of him. One of those images, captured as the twister was in the process of devastating the Midway Trailer Park, became what is probably the most famous tornado photograph ever taken, and the icon of the nation’s second deadliest large-scale tornado outbreak. Paul’s image of twin funnels straddling the highway is instantly recognizable to anyone familiar with the 1965 Palm Sunday Outbreak.

Like countless weather weenies, I’ve been fascinated with Paul’s photo. As a storm chaser, I’m familiar with multiple-vortex tornadoes. Today meteorologists understand that they’re fairly common. Yet multiple vortices take all shapes, sizes, and behaviors, and I’ve always been on the lookout for something that seemed to approximate what was probably happening in Paul’s photograph (really his series of photographs depicting a single funnel undergoing vortex breakdown into the infamous “twins”).

Just a few minutes ago, I came across a new YouTube video that is the closest I’ve ever seen to what the Midway tornado–and very likely the one that hit Dunlap 45 minutes later–may have been like. I don’t normally feature YouTube videos in this blog because I hate discovering that the video I had included in a post a year ago no longer exists. But besides being truly impressive, this clip is just too strikingly reminiscent of Paul’s historic photo to pass by.

The video was shot just yesterday in southeast Oklahoma by storm chasers Marc Austin, Robert McIntyre, and Gabe Garfield. At 1:08 into their clip, you can see two large twin funnels embedded in the parent circulation. It’s a spectacular display, and my hat is off to these guys for catching the storm of the day. Tragically, the tornado killed at least one person and caused significant damage in the towns of Tushka and Atoka.

The system that produced the Tushka/Atoka tornado and a number of others yesterday is moving east today. Mississippi and Alabama lie within a moderate risk, with a good possibility of strong to violent tornadoes. The storms are ongoing this morning as I write, and a whole day lies ahead of them for moisture and instability to build across Dixie Alley. It’s not a pleasant prospect. Let’s hope that the damage will be minimal and no more lives will be lost.

New Website on 1965 Palm Sunday Tornadoes (and the Truth about “The Twins”)

Someone has finally done it. Elkhart County native Jenni Siri has set about developing a website dedicated to the 20th century’s second worst tornado outbreak, the infamous 1965 Palm Sunday Outbreak. Like me, Jenni has been shaped by the outbreak in a way that has remained with her. In her website, she has provided a forum for survivors of that day to share their experiences.

A few days ago, in an email exchange, I shared my thoughts with Jenni concerning a peculiar controversy which arose out of the Palm Sunday event. It concerns what is probably the most celebrated tornado photograph of all time: Elkhart Truth photographer Paul Huffman’s award-winning photo of twin funnels sweeping across US 33 between Goshen and Elkhart, Indiana.

In his newspaper account, Huffman described the tornado approaching and demolishing the Midway Trailer Court. Yet others have insisted that they saw “The Twins,” as they have been called, strike the Sunnyside Division in Dunlap, nearly 3 miles up the road.

Who is right? After nearly 50 years, the issue still persists. Can it ever be settled?

I believe both sides of The Twins controversy have told the truth about what they saw, and I have a very good reason for thinking so. When I shared my thoughts with Jenni, she asked whether I’d be willing to post them on her site. I had planned to save my theory for my book on the Palm Sunday Tornadoes, but that book is taking a long time to write. Meanwhile, why not try to resolve a conflict which, to my thinking, was never necessary. There’s an explanation that makes truth-tellers out of everyone, liars out of no one, and strikes me as just plain common sense.

But you can’t read it here. Believe me, once I finished my writeup, I was sorely tempted to post it in this blog! But a promise is a promise after all. So instead, I invite you to check out my article, “The Truth about ‘The Twins,'” on Jenni’s excellent site.

The Field, Final Chapter: Tornado Heart

This is the last installment of my account of the drama that unfolded for a number of storm chasers, including my group of four, on May 22, 2010, in northeast South Dakota. I’ve waited to share this part because it’s personal–not a deep, dark secret, but something which until now I’ve kept to myself and a few friends. It is, however, an incident I’ve wanted to write about, and with seven months passed and Christmas just a few days away, now seems like an appropriate time to do so.

If you were one of those who were out there in the field that day, you’ll agree that we were fortunate to have escaped without injury when the outcome could easily have been quite different. Perhaps the greatest gift we have this Christmas is the fact that we’re all here to talk about our experience. You were there; you know how it was. It was a hell of a ride that has made for a story we’ll probably tell and retell the rest of our lives, but at the time there was reason to wonder just how much longer our lives would last.

For the rest of my readers, you can read my detailed account including photos here. I’ll summarize by saying that a routine move to reposition east of a violently tornadic supercell near Roscoe turned into a trap when the road–which showed as a through-road on our mapping software–dead-ended where a farmer had recently plowed it over. As tornadoes began to spin up just west of our contingent and head directly toward us, all seven or eight vehicles drove madly south along a fenceline in a desperate attempt to outmaneuver the worst part of the storm. A quarter-mile down, blocked by ponding, we turned into the field and drove another hundred yards or so until we could drive no farther. Then we parked, braced ourselves, and hoped for the best. And those who believed in a loving, watchful God, prayed. I was one of them.

I’m writing this post to thank my heavenly Father for not only responding to those prayers, but also, as I have intimated above, for letting me know in a personal and moving way that He was there with us in that field, present and protecting us all.

Spiritual topics trigger different things in different people. So let me make something plain. I write as a disciple of Jesus; I do NOT write as an emissary of contemporary Churchianity. Jesus I love, but I don’t care for much of religious culture, any more than I care for boxes of any kind. So whether you’re a Christian or a non-Christian, kindly resist the urge to stick me into a nice, tidy category that would likely say more about you than about me. I know the questions that arise surrounding answered–and unanwered–prayer. I also know the conclusions people easily arrive at, both pro and con. My purpose isn’t to address any of that in this post; rather, I am here to tell you a story and let you make of it what you will.

As Mike’s Subaru Outback bounced along the fenceline behind the vehicle in front of us, grinding its way into and out of muddy potholes, I had a good view to the west from the passenger’s seat. Rain bands spiraled and braided, hinting at unseen vortices. At one point, to my considerable consternation, I saw twin funnels wrapping around each other like a pair of dancing snakes, moving straight at us. They reminded me–I kid you not, so please don’t shoot me for saying this–of the “sisters” in the movie “Twister.” I’d estimate that their distance from us was around 150 yards. My buddy Bill Oosterbaan saw them too.

That was the moment when I realized we were not going to outmaneuver the storm, and the words “seriously screwed” took on a whole new dimension. It dawned on me that now would be an excellent time to pray, and I did, earnestly. I don’t remember my exact words, but the gist of them was that I asked God to protect us, all of us. The scenario was bathed in a strange sense of unreality, and it seemed incredible to think that I was praying for my life. But that was in fact what I was doing.

Whatever happened to those serpentine vortices I don’t know. Evidently they dissipated before they reached the fenceline. But their image lodged in my mind, and it got called back the following day in an unusual way, as you will see.

At length our caravan’s flight for safety ended in the manner I’ve already described above, and the storm descended on us in full fury. On Stormtrack, a chaser recently shared some radar images of that phase of the storm, and in one of them, you can plainly make out not just one, but two eye-like features passing directly over and just north of our location. Suffice it to say that the rotation above us was complex and broad. I remember a fierce wind that seemed to constantly switch direction, and mist driving along the ground at high velocities along with the rain. A tornado spun up briefly about a hundred feet from one of the vehicles; I didn’t see it, but Adam Lucio captured it on video* and my eyes just about popped out of my skull when I saw the clip. Daaaaamn! Any closer and…well, who knows, but it probably wouldn’t have been a pretty picture.

Fast forward past the rest of the storm and the miserable drama that ensued. It was the following day and I was sitting in a hotel room in Aberdeen. I fired up my laptop, logged into my email, and…hey, what was this? A message from my friend Brad Doll. Hmmm, cool! Brad and I rarely email each other. Curious, I opened his note.

I wish I had saved it–I thought I did, but I can’t locate it. Otherwise, I’d quote it exactly. But it’s easy enough to recreate the essence of it: “Hey, brother, just thinking of you and your love for tornadoes and thought I’d share this picture with you.–Brad”

I opened the attached file. It contained the obviously Photoshopped picture you see here of two mirror-image, snaky-looking tornadoes with a funnel dividing the clouds between them, forming a heart. You can find the image without much trouble on the Internet, but I had never seen it before. As I looked at it, the snaky double-funnels I had seen yesterday popped into my mind. The similarity was weird–not that the previous day’s very real tornado resembled a heart; the only thing it looked like was scary as hell. No, it was the overall shape of its twin vortices and the way they had appeared in relation to each other that struck me.

Then it hit me. Brad didn’t have a clue where I was. He had no idea what I’d just been through. And he had never emailed me an image file before. Not only was the communication in itself unusual, but the timing of it was…well, it was incredible.

I could feel the tears coming to my eyes as the realization sank in. This email wasn’t from Brad. Not really. Brad was just a humble and available scribe; the message was from my Father, my wonderful heavenly Father. It was His way of saying, in a simple but powerful way, “Bob, I love you!”

What I’ve just written is something I believe with all my heart. God knows us through and through. He knows what makes you, you, and me, me; and He knows how to speak to each of us intimately, in ways that touch us in deep places if we have ears to hear. Here is what I believe He was saying to me:

“Bob, when you, Tom, Bill, Mike, and the rest of the guys were fleeing along that fenceline like scared rabbits, I saw you. I heard your prayer and the prayers of all who called on Me. And I was with you. My hand covered you and my presence protected you all–because I love you all, every last man of you who was there. Today, Bob, I’m letting you know that I truly was there–that yes, it was Me–and that I carry you in my heart.”

I am not one who calls every unusual thing that happens a miracle. I believe that genuine miracles are rare, and I dislike devaluing their reality by sloppily misapplying the word. But I also believe in grace, and from time to time I have witnessed extraordinary examples of what it can do. After receiving the email from Brad, I am convinced that what happened in the field on May 22 was one of those occasions. Things could easily have turned out far worse for those of us who were there. Instead of a joyous Christmas, this year could have been one of great sadness for our loved ones, and of an empty chair at the dinner table–a chair that once was ours. But this Christmas will not be that way. We will sit down once again with our families, and we will eat, and we will exchange gifts. We will get on with the rest of winter after the holidays. And we will return to the Great Plains this coming spring to enjoy another season of chasing the storms that we love.

Just about anything can be written off as coincidence, just as almost anything unusual can be written in as a direct act of God when it wasn’t necessarily so. It’s a matter of one’s worldview. If, having read my account, you’re inclined to consider my experience just a peculiar fluke, perhaps not even all that strange, then so be it. I can’t prove differently to you and I don’t feel that I need to try. But I most definitely believe otherwise, as does my friend Brad, and Tom, and Bill, and, I am sure, at least a few others who were there in the field.

It takes faith to see God’s kingdom, and faith is perhaps best described as an extra faculty, a sixth sense that augments the first five senses. It perceives and understands differently, and sees a different and higher reality behind the stuff of our lives. It is believing, but it is also a kind of knowing that I’ve never been able to describe satisfactorily. Like the color blue, once you’ve seen it, you know what it is; but whether you’ve experienced it or not, blue is blue, and so it is with the kingdom of heaven. However accurately or inaccurately, faith is the eye that sees it.

To my wonderful Lord, Brother, and Forever Friend, Jesus, whose birth I gratefully celebrate this season: Thank you–for so much more than I can begin to tell. And to my friends and fellow storm chasers, brothers and sisters of the skies, saints, sinners, seekers, wherever your worldview stands: May your Christmas be marked by grace. And may there be great steak and good beer in store for all of us this coming year.

Merry Christmas,

Bob

__________________

* You can see Adam’s clip along with more footage from the field, plus a whole lot more, on the DVD “Bullseye Bowdle,” produced by the lads at Convective Addiction. If you enjoy storm chasing videos, this one’s the real deal–and no, the guys haven’t paid me a solitary cent to plug it here.

Interview with Paul and Elizabeth Huffman: Insights into a Historic Tornado Photograph

Meet Paul “Pic” Huffman and his wife, Elizabeth. A very photogenic couple, wouldn’t you say? And, I might add, a lovely one–two very nice, warm people who welcomed me into their house near Elkhart, Indiana, yesterday for a conversation I’ve been looking forward to a long, long time.

Forty-five years ago, on the evening of April 11, 1965, Paul and Elizabeth were homeward bound on US 33 when Elizabeth spotted what looked like a column of smoke off to the west. “Look at that smoke,” she told Paul. “Something’s burning.”

“That’s not smoke,” Paul replied.

Pulling the car off onto the shoulder, he grabbed his camera out of the back seat. Then, scrambling out of the vehicle and hooking his leg around the front bumper to steady himself in the wind, Paul Huffman began snapping photos as a tornado moved across the field, broadening and intensifying on its rapid journey toward the Midway Trailer Park less than half a mile up the road.

One of Paul’s photos, taken as debris from mobile homes exploded skyward, became not only the instant icon of the second worst tornado outbreak in Midwestern history, but also what is undoubtedly the most famous tornado photograph of all time. With the emotional impact peculiar to black-and-white photography, Paul’s photo depicts twin funnels straddling US 33 like a pair of immense, black legs. It is a chilling image, instantly recognizable to anyone interested in tornado research or severe weather history.

Researching for a book I’m writing on the 1965 Palm Sunday Tornadoes, I’ve come across several variations of Paul’s story by different writers. The discrepancies have been enough to leave me feeling frustrated. The Huffmans’ account strikes me as integral to a book on the outbreak, and as a matter of both responsible writing and simple respect, I’ve wanted to learn the facts and offer as accurate a writeup as possible. I was delighted last year, then, to learn that Paul would be one of the featured speakers at a Palm Sunday Outbreak commemorative event at the Bristol Museum.

Of course I attended the commemoration, where I connected with my friends Pat Bowman and Debbie Watters (my two “tornado ladies”) and also met Paul and Elizabeth for the first time. It was then that I requested an interview. Now, a year-and-a-half later, I finally got the opportunity.

When I arrived at their house, the Huffmans were standing outside surveying damage to their property from the previous day’s derecho. A small tree was down, a flagpole had gotten blown over, and a lot of tree litter had filled the yard. It seemed ironic that I was meeting Paul and Elizabeth on the wings of another bad storm.

They invited me inside, and we had a great chat that covered a lot more ground than just the tornadoes. In their early 80s, the Huffmans are an engaging twosome with plenty of stories to share. Paul, who served as a reporter for the Elkhart Truth, regaled me with several accounts from back in the day, including a flyover directly over a smokestack of the newly built Cook nuclear power plant, and a humorous mishap on the roof of a quonset hut. But of course, the main focus was his experience with the Midway tornado.

I won’t go into details here because it’s been a long day and I’m tired, and besides, I haven’t had a chance to review the interview tape. But here are a few noteworthy highlights:

* Paul never saw the twin funnels when they occurred. He was too busy snapping pictures, and he saw only the rightmost funnel in his viewfinder. Not until later, when he developed his film in his darkroom at home, did he realize what an unusual image he had captured.

* Among the larger pieces of debris raining around the Huffmans’ vehicle was a car which got flung overhead and landed on the other side of the railroad tracks that parallel US 33.

* The Huffmans never heard any of the tornado forecasts that were broadcast that day. But Paul, working outdoors earlier in that balmy afternoon sunshine, sensed that bad weather was on the way and mentioned it to Elizabeth.

* Ted Fujita interviewed the Huffmans at their house. Paul said that during his visit, Fujita seemed, oddly enough, to be more interested in Saint Elmo’s fire than in the tornado.

Paul’s overall work as a photojournalist won him a number of awards, but I’m sure that he and Elizabeth would agree that it was his one remarkable, serendipitous photograph of “The Twins” that gained him fame, if not necessarily fortune. It is strange to think how an ordinary, down-to-earth man can find himself in the right place at the right time, doing what he was designed to do–in Paul’s case, taking photographs–and wind up having an impact that shapes lives and vocations. It’s impossible to say how many people have been affected by Paul’s powerful and horrifying photo of the Midway tornado, but I know that it has helped to inspire a few notable careers in meteorology and media, not to mention many a storm chaser. It was a treat to finally get to sit down and talk with the man who took that picture, and to enjoy him and his wife not merely for their fascinating account, but also for the fine, intelligent, humorous, hospitable people that they are.

Remembering April 11, 1965: Highlights of the Palm Sunday Tornado Memorial Service

If you’ve been following this blog lately, then you’re well aware that yesterday was the 45th anniversary of the 1965 Palm Sunday Tornado Outbreak. The commemoration held at the Tornado Memorial Park in Dunlap, Indiana, came together beautifully thanks to the hard work of my friend Debbie Watters, who owns the park. To say that it was a memorable event understates some of the truly amazing things that transpired.

Dan McCarthy, the meteorologist in charge at KIND in Indianapolis, was the keynote speaker. Dan did a superb job describing the strides that severe weather forecasting and the warning system have taken since 1965, and explaining how the Palm Sunday Outbreak served as a catalyst for those changes. If there is any comfort to hearts that still ache over the loss of loved ones in the storms, Dan suggested that at least part of it may lie in knowing that a tornado catastrophe of such magnitude is unlikely to ever happen again.

Several other speakers followed Dan. Last of all was Debbie. I think one reason she does so well behind a microphone is that she pours her heart out toward her listeners. At a gathering of tornado survivors and their families, the needs may not be readily apparent; but Debbie, having lost her brother Stevie in the Dunlap F5, knows what lies below the surface. It had to have taken some courage to address the subject of survivor guilt as honestly and

straightforwardly as Debbie did, but it’s only in shining light on such a painful issue that its grip can perhaps be broken on people who, over four decades later, still wonder why they lived while their loved one died

At the end of the service, there was a balloon launch in loving memory of the Elkhart County tornado victims. It was a poignant moment, watching those bright, merry balloons soar skyward into the blue.

But it was the behind-the-scenes happenings, the interpersonal connections, that will live on in my mind. There were some heartwarming moments, and a few that were just plain incredible. Debbie had always wondered who the stranger was who saved her mother’s life after the tornado, and who sheltered the two of them in his car until an ambulance arrived. Yesterday, a woman introduced herself to Debbie as the man’s wife. You can imagine what a powerful meeting that was for both women.

Among the roughly 150 attendees, I was delighted to see Paul and Elizabeth Huffman. Paul is the retired Elkhart Truth photographer who took the famous image of twin funnels straddling US 33 south of Dunlap, destroying the Midway Trailer Court. That photo, one of six in a sequence, is arguably the most famous and dramatic tornado photograph of all time, and one that has inspired more than one young kid to pursue meteorology as a career.

Now in his eighties, Paul is a peppery and humorous personality, and his wife, Elizabeth, is a sweetheart. It was fascinating, in talking with them, to get insights into how things played out that day. Paul wasn’t even aware of the twin-funnel structure when he snapped the photo; in his viewfinder he saw just the rightmost funnel. It was only when the startling image of “The Twins” emerged in development that Paul realized he had captured something extraordinary on film.

I was particularly pleased when one of the speakers, Brian Beaver–an award-winning radio correspondent formerly with IPR–took time to publicly recognize Paul and honor him for his achievement.

My friend Pat Bowman and her brother John were also present. But of course they would be–Pat is integrally knit into these events. She and Deb are my two “tornado ladies,” dear to each other and to me. The way that the three of us connected is a pretty incredible story in its own right, and it all started with Pat. Actually, it started long before, with a newspaper account of a young couple’s tragic loss of their child, and of a small boy’s prayers for them in response. There is a reason that Pat is very special to me. But that story is for another time.

The last photo on this page is one I will always treasure. That’s Elizabeth and Paul Huffman on the left. Debbie is the blonde, and that’s Pat on the right. God gifts us with people, and it was a blessing to me to see these four together. The threads of events that connect them are intricate and remarkable, and I feel privileged to see the connections continue to unfold in their lives and in mine.

1965 Palm Sunday Outbreak Commemorative Event: Update

Here’s the latest on the 45-year anniversary commemoration of the 1965 Palm Sunday Tornadoes (click here for original notification):

  • Date: Sunday, April 11, 2010
  • Time: 3:30 EST
  • Location: Palm Sunday Tornado Memorial, corner of Amy and Cole Streets, Dunlap, IN, south of Elkhart. Click here for Wayfaring Map.
  • Event organizer: Debbie Forsythe-Watters

The event will feature a number of speakers, including Dan McCarthy, this year’s keynote speaker. Dan is the meteorologist in charge at KIND, the National Weather Service office in Indianapolis. He is the author of 40th Anniversary of the Palm Sunday Outbreak: How It Changed Preparedness & Forecasting, a presentation which he delivered at the 9th Annual Ohio Severe Weather Symposium.

Lest that sound a bit intimidating to those who aren’t weather weenies, Dan is a great guy. I haven’t met him in person, but we’ve connected on Facebook and swapped a few emails, and he strikes me as a very likeable, down-to-earth person who knows how to talk to his listeners, not above them. I don’t know what he has in mind, but I very much doubt he’s going to deliver a college-level weather lecture. Rather, I suspect that he’ll have some understandable and fascinating insights to share on the second worst Midwestern tornado outbreak in modern history.

It’s also possible that Paul and Elizabeth Huffman may show up. Paul is the press photographer who took the famous shot of the twin funnels hitting the Midway Trailer Park two miles south of Dunlap. He and his wife are elderly, and their attendance will depend on how they’re feeling that day. It’s an unpressured arrangement between Debbie and the Huffmans, so we’ll keep our fingers crossed and leave it at that.

In any event, if you have any stake in the 1965 Palm Sunday Outbreak, don’t miss this event. Come expecting to connect with people who in one way or another were affected by the Palm Sunday Tornadoes. If you’re a survivor of the tornadoes, you’ll meet others who also lived through them, and you’ll have stories to share. If you lost a loved one in the storms, you’ll meet others who know what it was like to endure such a loss—who still, after all this time, feel the ache and understand yours. If you’re a child or relative of someone who experienced the tornadoes, you’ve heard some of the stories; this will be your chance to hear others, and to gain insights into your mother or father, aunt or uncle.

No matter who you are, if you’re interested in the 1965 Palm Sunday Tornadoes and you live in the area, in northern Indiana or southern Michigan, I think you’ll find this a worthwhile and memorable afternoon.

Highlights of the 1965 Palm Sunday Tornado Memorial in Bristol, Indiana

Yesterday I made the drive to the Elkhart County Historical Museum in Bristol, Indiana, to attend the forty-fourth memorial observance of the 1965 Palm Sunday Tornadoes. The occasion may have been low-key, but it was nevertheless remarkable. A couple of the factors that made it so were purely personal. I finally got to meet my long-distance friend and owner of the Tornado Memorial Park in nearby Dunlap, Debbie Watters. We’ve connected so well across the miles via email that when we finally got to talk person to person, it was as natural as if we’d hung out together forever. It was a double pleasure to meet her daughter and husband as well.

Then there was my other “tornado lady” friend, Pat McIntosh, who attended the meeting with her brother, John. What a sweetie! The three of us caught dinner afterward near Middlebury.

The stories and memories were amazing, and some quite touching and emotional. One huge highlight for me is captured in the photos below. In the first photo, the image shown on the projector screen depicts the notorious twin funnels that swept through the Midway Trailer Park south of Dunlap, Indiana. The image is one of the most famous tornado photographs ever taken, and the man standing next to it is the person who took it, retired Elkhart Truth newspaper photographer Paul Huffman.

Paul Huffman stands next to a projection of his Pulitzer Award-winning photo of the Midway twin funnels.

Paul Huffman stands next to a projection of his Pulitzer Award-winning photo of the Midway twin funnels.

Paul and his wife were traveling north on US 33 shortly after 6:00 p.m. on April 11, 1965, when they spotted the tornado moving in from the southwest. Stopping the car, Paul grabbed his camera and snapped a series of six dramatic photographs as the tornado morphed from a narrow funnel into the two-legged monster that devastated the hapless trailer court, then moved off to the northeast in a cloak of rain.

How fast was the tornado moving, I wanted to know. Fast, Paul said. Probably seventy miles an hour. How close was he, someone else asked. Around a quarter-mile. Were he and his wife at all close to the debris? An ironic smile. Yes, his wife replied, the two of them experienced some debris falling around them. Would a flattened automobile qualify?

Paul Huffman speaks at the 2008 memorial observation of the 1965 Palm Sunday Tornadoes.

Paul Huffman speaks at the 2008 memorial observance of the 1965 Palm Sunday Tornadoes.

One powerful moment occurred after the event had officially ended and people were milling around the tables full of memorabilia. My friend Pat was showing me a photo Paul had taken during rescue operations at the trailer court. In the photo was a young Pat, laying on a stretcher. Over her hovered her husband, Bill. To the right stood a fireman.

As we looked at the photo, an elderly gentleman standing nearby named Dwight Kime said, “That fireman was my brother-in-law.” Dwight himself had been one of the rescue workers. As it turned out, he was the one who found Pat and Bill’s baby, Chris, amid the rubble–one of the youngest of the ten fatalities in the trailer court. Dwight was visibly moved as he came to understand that Pat had been the child’s mother. It has been forty-four years since that terrible evening, but the memories–and the hidden sadness–never fade. I am glad that Pat’s little boy was found and cared for in death by such a tenderhearted man as Dwight Kime. And I am just as glad that, after all these years, he and Pat got to meet and talk at last. That is God’s grace.