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By Patsy Dickey:
That morning was grey, and daylight was just creeping over the Dean Drive east ridge. I had tip-toed downstairs to make coffee. My son, Tom, had undergone deviated septum surgery the day before, and was staying here for a while to recuperate. He was asleep upstairs. I turned on the radio, keeping the sound level soft.
As I set up the coffee pot I heard the word ” ‘tornado” come from the cabinet top. Like where, I wondered; Atlanta? Alabama? Pouring water in the percolator I strained to hear more. The birds suddenly stopped their early morning cheeping and chattering in the trees outside. Flipping the switch on the coffee pot, I turned to retrieve the bacon.
The house went dark as if a large blanket had been dropped over the roof. For a second I froze in the stifling silence, inside and out. The house seemed to grow even darker. Stumbling to the kitchen window I beheld a horror of a lifetime.
All this day has passed watching small and growing sliders baste the pavement in front of 1016 Dean Drive on every sleddable conveyance their parents could provide, and including their bellies — everything from vintage sleds to baking pans. Behold, there is even one orange plastic, inflatable beach tube. The fastest vehicle of thrills seems to be a large piece of red plastic conveniently bent up at the front.