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Bailey Foxglove was sixteen at the time and pressed into service to answer all the emergency calls for the sheriff, which were rerouted to her home. As the daughter of Sheriff Foxglove, she held the fort, helping those she could. Everyone who called was panicked, at a loss, searching for a loved one. Some couldn’t even find their own homes.

“Trees were down, buildings were gone. We navigate by certain things, you know? When you use the church steeple to tell you where you are on Main Street, and then the steeple’s gone, suddenly Main Street looks real different.”

Without points of reference, citizens wandered the streets. The Fairlawn Hotel had collapsed, as well as the fire station, resulting in the deaths of three of the four citizens of Henley who were lost that day. James and Jessica Beckley were a young couple with a newborn whose names are etched onto the memorial near the water tower, along with Laura Richardson, the tornado’s fourth victim.

Helen Gurtz cleans and maintains the memorial, and the Whitesides’ Family Flower shop donates geraniums to be planted each year. The village council recently announced plans to put up a park bench nearby, to invite people to sit and think awhile about what was lost that day. As Mrs. Gurtz says, there is more than one tragedy here.

“We lost people, yes, and that young couple and their baby—there’s nothing sadder than that. But this town isn’t what it used to be. Those bricks were baked in a kiln built down by the river right when Henley was founded. The trees that built that steeple were some of the first downed in Markham County. You drive through Henley now it looks like any other place: block buildings, square windows, concrete steps. All the beauty is gone—the carved cornices, the old stone foundations, the hitching post for horses was still outside the Fairlawn when the tornado came through. That’s all gone now. We lost a lot in 1994. A lot of history.”

History was lost, but the future is still bright for the citizens of Henley. As the thirtieth anniversary of the tornado approaches, citizens are working hard to decide the best way to commemorate the day. Anita Levering, who has taught fifth grade for more than two decades, plans to take her class on a walking tour of town, showing the children what buildings used to stand in each place. David Swinton, former owner/operator/reporter/photographer for the Hometown Henley Headlines, is planning to reprint the newspaper editions that cover the tornado and its aftermath, selling them at 1994 prices—a little under a dollar.

“I haven’t settled it all yet, in my head. If I have to lose money, I will. Paper’s more expensive today, but this is important, and I want everyone who wants a reprint to have one.”

Commemorative postcards and placards are also in the works. Follow the Markham County Historical Society Facebook page to find out more!

Tune in next week as coverage of the long stretch of bad days continues.

Thirty-One

I pull off my headphones, dully scrolling through the transcription of the tornado episode. It’s crap, and I know it. After accumulating a pile of paper, tons of notes, and talking to anybody who wanted to chat, I’d just grabbed pull quotes from a handful of people and reiterated the old stories that everyone knows. My heart wasn’t in it, and I skipped out, phoned it in.

And, of course, people love it.

I’d turned comments back on, knowing full well that there’s nothing here to flare tempers or ignite passions. I didn’t say anything inflammatory, didn’t point fingers, didn’t chide anyone, or tell them how to feel. I played the straight and narrow and am being rewarded for it. I’m pretending to be just what everyone thinks I am—Ivy League–bound, buttoned-up Lydia Chass, who would never kick a kindergartener in the balls, rig an election, or leave someone stranded at a jail.

Mrs. Levering: More great coverage, Lydia! Thank you for honoring our past and keeping your language clean in this episode!

BigMacKenzie: Hard work pays off! Harvard bound!

Jo-Jo-Mac: Always a pleasure to hear your voice, Lydia. Much preferred.

Swinton_D: So glad to see young people caring about their roots! Thank you for mentioning the reprints!

HenleyHistSoc: Looking forward to the thirtieth anniversary! We have lots more planned so stay tuned!

“Hooray,” I mutter to myself. “The pearl anniversary of death and destruction. Come celebrate with us as we polish a stone and put up a bench so you can sit and look at the stone.”

“Lydia?” There’s a timid knock at my door, and Mom pushes it open an inch. Steven wiggles through, his wheels forcing it to swing open.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, leaning down and unhooking his wheels to pull him into my lap. He cuddles in, purring, a tight coil of fur and warmth, comfort radiating from him. I click my laptop shut, and Mom’s eyes follow my movement.

“What’s up?” she asks, sitting on my bed cross-legged and pulling a pillow across her knees. “Still working on that episode?”

“No,” I admit, burying my face in Steven’s fur. I’d been avoiding Mom and Dad ever since coming back from the prison, not wanting to admit to them that I’d pulled the rug out from under Bristal and left her out in the cold—literally. After Mom and I had our version of a knockdown drag-out, we’ve all been playing it careful and polite around the house.

“I already posted the episode,” I tell Mom. “It’s the least interesting thing since the minutes from the septic system edition of the village council meeting. And everyone loves it.”

“Well . . .” She smiles, trying hard. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“You mean—at least no one is setting our yard on fire this time?”

“I mean”—she puts her hands in the air, as if weighing one thing against another—“it is nice that the house doesn’t smell like a tractor pull anymore.”

I snort, puffing out Steven’s hair. He turns to touch noses with me, his whiskers tickling my cheeks. Then he looks over at Mom and begins to wiggle, suddenly aware that the grass is much greener, and the cuddles more dependable, on the other side of the fence. I carry him over to the bed, and he slides into her arms like water, the purr kicking up a notch.

“Sit down,” Mom says, patting the bed next to her. “I need to tell you something.”

“Oh God,” I say. “You need to work on your lead-in.”