The tornado had struck in the evening hours just after sunset and a line of summer thunder storms went through the small farming community. Only the warning sirens on the towers gave people the few minutes notice to get to their storm shelters, and kept the death toll down. Now, with the survivors wandering amid the wreakage, it was plain to see the level of destruction. Nothing remained standing, and the bits and pieces of broken lumber, torn shreds of siding, and chunks of insulation were all that was left of homes that were peoples hopes and dreams. The devastaton was as total as if a nuclear weapon had been dropped on the area.
A well dressed young woman in a blue blazer with a TV station creast on the front was looking at a cameraman, giving her report to the studio.
"The scene here is one of horror, with people wandering in shock in what used to be a nice nieghborhood of this town..."
As she had spoke, the camera had panned around and stopped at a strange sight. An old man, with white hair and a white stubble of beard was sitting in a folding lawn chair, in what used to be a driveway of a home. Now it was littered with wreakage, with a small cleared space where the old man had set up camp. He had a small fire going made from the scraps of wood that may have been parts of his house that once stood on the debris field by the driveway. He was sitting by the small campfire with a blackened coffee pot sitting at the edge of the fire. He had a smile on his face, and a pocket knife in his hand that he whittled on a piece of wood with. The young woman reporter made her way over to him, followed by the cameraman.
"Sir, is this your place here?" the reporter asked him.
The old man looked up at her, and she could see the knife in his hand was an old style knife, the kind her uncle carried. The blade was a grey patina, and the stag handles were a buttery yellow. The man shifted the knife to his left hand that held the piece of wood, and held out his hand.
"Yep, this was my place, or what's left of it. My names Sam Wilkes."
The young reporter shook his offered hand and it was hard and callused with a lifetime of work. She looked at his weathered creased face and guessed he'd spent his life working in the outdoors. He smiled at her and looked around.
"It sure is a heck of a mess, ain't it?" he asked her with a smile.
"Yes, it is. Do you mind if I ask you few questions, sir?"
"Sam. The name's Sam. Sure, ask away. Is that camera on? I ain't never been interviewed by a news person before."
The woman reporter held the mic between them.
"What was it like when the tornado hit?" she asked.
"Oh, the sirens went off, and I went and got in my hole." the old man said, gesturing with his pocket knife to the door of the storm shelter set in the ground." I could hear things ripping apart and sounding like explosions, so I jist stayed put till it was over. When I poked m'head out after, I could see its all gone. Nuthin but a bunch of scrap building material left. Turned out to be a beautiful morning though. No matter how bad it gets, there's always a morning after. If you're lucky, you get to see it."
The young woman paused, puzzled by the old man's attitude.
"Exuse me, I don't want you to take this wrong, but you seem to be in a pretty good mood for a man who just lost everything?"
The old man had sat back down in his lawn chair, and sliced a long thing curl of wood with his pocket knife.
"Oh you mean this stuff?" he asked pointing with the grey blade of his pocket knife. "Heck, that ain't nothin. It's all jist stuff. I imagine the 'surance company guy will be around in a few days or a week, and I can always get more stuff. Heck, whats a sofa or a TV, or even a little frame house, compared with people? My boys are grown and living in the city with jobs that they'll never have to work as hard as I did. My missus has been gone a few years now, so's nobody I care about got hurt. The few things I do give a hoot about are down in the storm celler. I got coffee on the fire, some food to eat, and my old truck don't look too aweful bad once I get the junk off it."
They looked at the old red Ford pickup by the driveway with some broken up wallboard and 2X4 pieces laying on top of it.
"I recall something my dear old departed daddy once told me." Sam went on in his slow Texas drawl. "He said never to cry over something that cain't cry over you back."
The young woman reporter was at a loss to respond to that, so she just turned to the camera.
"Words of wisdom to think about in a disaster zone. This is Sally Jenkins, KCDC news. Back to you at the studio."
She made a motion for the camera to cut, and then turned back to Sam.
"Thank you, Sam." she said to the old man. Then as an after thought, "That's an interesting pocket knife you have there. It looks very much like the one my Uncle Hank carries."
"Then your Uncle Hank has good taste." said Sam, holding out the open knife on his callused palm. "It's a Case large stockman. My boys saved up thier allowance when they were kids and gave it to me for father's day one year. It's been in my pocket everyday since then. It's one of the few things I have that cain't be replaced. It reminds me of the people that I thank God weren't here last night."
Sally picked up the knife from the offered hand, and felt the weight of it. Somehow it felt re-assuring and solid. Maybe that's why the old man was whittling in the middle of a disaster. She handed the knife back with care, and they said thier goodbyes. The cameraman and Sally walked back toward the news van and the cameraman looked over at his co-worker. Sally was very unusually quiet.
"A nickle for you're thoughts?" he asked.
"I thought they were only worth a penny?" said Sally.
"Inflation has a toll on everything."
"Oh shut up and get in the truck."
Driving out, they passed a line of National Guard trucks comming in. The young woman kept her unusual silence. Then suddenly she spoke to her cameraman.
" What that old man said was true. I think I'm going to have a big yard sale this weekend. Funny how sometimes it takes a disaster to make you see what's really important. All this materialisim, it's all just stuff."
A well dressed young woman in a blue blazer with a TV station creast on the front was looking at a cameraman, giving her report to the studio.
"The scene here is one of horror, with people wandering in shock in what used to be a nice nieghborhood of this town..."
As she had spoke, the camera had panned around and stopped at a strange sight. An old man, with white hair and a white stubble of beard was sitting in a folding lawn chair, in what used to be a driveway of a home. Now it was littered with wreakage, with a small cleared space where the old man had set up camp. He had a small fire going made from the scraps of wood that may have been parts of his house that once stood on the debris field by the driveway. He was sitting by the small campfire with a blackened coffee pot sitting at the edge of the fire. He had a smile on his face, and a pocket knife in his hand that he whittled on a piece of wood with. The young woman reporter made her way over to him, followed by the cameraman.
"Sir, is this your place here?" the reporter asked him.
The old man looked up at her, and she could see the knife in his hand was an old style knife, the kind her uncle carried. The blade was a grey patina, and the stag handles were a buttery yellow. The man shifted the knife to his left hand that held the piece of wood, and held out his hand.
"Yep, this was my place, or what's left of it. My names Sam Wilkes."
The young reporter shook his offered hand and it was hard and callused with a lifetime of work. She looked at his weathered creased face and guessed he'd spent his life working in the outdoors. He smiled at her and looked around.
"It sure is a heck of a mess, ain't it?" he asked her with a smile.
"Yes, it is. Do you mind if I ask you few questions, sir?"
"Sam. The name's Sam. Sure, ask away. Is that camera on? I ain't never been interviewed by a news person before."
The woman reporter held the mic between them.
"What was it like when the tornado hit?" she asked.
"Oh, the sirens went off, and I went and got in my hole." the old man said, gesturing with his pocket knife to the door of the storm shelter set in the ground." I could hear things ripping apart and sounding like explosions, so I jist stayed put till it was over. When I poked m'head out after, I could see its all gone. Nuthin but a bunch of scrap building material left. Turned out to be a beautiful morning though. No matter how bad it gets, there's always a morning after. If you're lucky, you get to see it."
The young woman paused, puzzled by the old man's attitude.
"Exuse me, I don't want you to take this wrong, but you seem to be in a pretty good mood for a man who just lost everything?"
The old man had sat back down in his lawn chair, and sliced a long thing curl of wood with his pocket knife.
"Oh you mean this stuff?" he asked pointing with the grey blade of his pocket knife. "Heck, that ain't nothin. It's all jist stuff. I imagine the 'surance company guy will be around in a few days or a week, and I can always get more stuff. Heck, whats a sofa or a TV, or even a little frame house, compared with people? My boys are grown and living in the city with jobs that they'll never have to work as hard as I did. My missus has been gone a few years now, so's nobody I care about got hurt. The few things I do give a hoot about are down in the storm celler. I got coffee on the fire, some food to eat, and my old truck don't look too aweful bad once I get the junk off it."
They looked at the old red Ford pickup by the driveway with some broken up wallboard and 2X4 pieces laying on top of it.
"I recall something my dear old departed daddy once told me." Sam went on in his slow Texas drawl. "He said never to cry over something that cain't cry over you back."
The young woman reporter was at a loss to respond to that, so she just turned to the camera.
"Words of wisdom to think about in a disaster zone. This is Sally Jenkins, KCDC news. Back to you at the studio."
She made a motion for the camera to cut, and then turned back to Sam.
"Thank you, Sam." she said to the old man. Then as an after thought, "That's an interesting pocket knife you have there. It looks very much like the one my Uncle Hank carries."
"Then your Uncle Hank has good taste." said Sam, holding out the open knife on his callused palm. "It's a Case large stockman. My boys saved up thier allowance when they were kids and gave it to me for father's day one year. It's been in my pocket everyday since then. It's one of the few things I have that cain't be replaced. It reminds me of the people that I thank God weren't here last night."
Sally picked up the knife from the offered hand, and felt the weight of it. Somehow it felt re-assuring and solid. Maybe that's why the old man was whittling in the middle of a disaster. She handed the knife back with care, and they said thier goodbyes. The cameraman and Sally walked back toward the news van and the cameraman looked over at his co-worker. Sally was very unusually quiet.
"A nickle for you're thoughts?" he asked.
"I thought they were only worth a penny?" said Sally.
"Inflation has a toll on everything."
"Oh shut up and get in the truck."
Driving out, they passed a line of National Guard trucks comming in. The young woman kept her unusual silence. Then suddenly she spoke to her cameraman.
" What that old man said was true. I think I'm going to have a big yard sale this weekend. Funny how sometimes it takes a disaster to make you see what's really important. All this materialisim, it's all just stuff."
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