The day after the tornado, my store quickly sold out of portable tvs, tv and radio antennas, and batteries. Victims have come in to get prices for their insurance claims. At least three of my fellow employees lost their houses. Many others have helped with organizing and participating in the cleanup.
Other than the damage to the church and the business sectors I pass everyday on my way to work, I hadn't seen any of the residential damage in person. Yesterday, however, we passed an area between Longhollow Pike and Gallatin, which we hadn't even realized had been hit until we were upon it. Once again, I am awed by the destructive power of Mother Nature. Somehow I had been under the impression that brick houses and steel structures stood up to tornados. Boy, was I a dumbass. In addiction to what it did to that church, right across the interstate from there are the remains of an industrial building, which is now a mass of huge twisted iron girders. Wooden houses couldn't stand a chance. What amazes me most is the speed not of the wind, but of the destruction. A mere five seconds in passing, and a beautiful two story wood and brick home is reduced to complete rubble. It's heartbreaking, and it's scary.
There's a weird kind of mourning, acceptance, and moving on that goes on here, even by those of us who were not directly affected by the tornado. I suppose that too is like the earthquakes back in SoCal, except that this area is so much more community oriented, and everyone knows everyone else. I guess, in a way, we were all affected by the death and destruction. It's hard to drive past that church everyday, and not feel a twinge of hurt and somberness. Jamie says it turns her stomach, and she can't even look at it. But with each passing day, the conversations are less about the tornado, and more about normal everyday things. The church now has a huge banner facing the interstate, which reads, "He is still God." Life goes on.
