The term "indescribable" seems so trite. It's the word that pops out of every mouth to every individual who has witnessed the wreckage left by the Big Monster which trekked from Tuscaloosa to Pleasant Grove and on to Fultondale on April 27, 2011. And I'm not talking about those who have gasped at paper images or pdfs on their computer screen. Those individuals who have family and friends, those who grew up in neighborhoods which no longer exist: they call it indescribable.
There's something haunting about barren tree trunks. They are the only "trees" still standing in the damaged parts of Pleasant Grove - they're snapped in half and bark is missing and the tops are nowhere to be seen. Bare trunks shoot straight into the sky with jagged edges, looking empty and raped.
The town had the same feel. In order to drive to my Aunt's house, we had to drive through an area which suffered a direct hit from the path of the storm. What was once rows of small brick houses with large trees spread throughout was now barren earth with sticks of wood and housewares scattered like litter. My Aunt started naming all of the people she knew on the streets we passed, and then began saying of each one, "What happened to them? I haven't heard anything. What happened?" How could you survive when there's nothing left of your home but steps and a concrete slab? We had no answers, and the weight of the week's emotional toll fell on her as she crumbled into tears.
As we drove down the rode to my Aunt's house - the home where we used to gather for Christmas and Mother's Day when my grandmother was alive - I didn't know where we were. The houses were deformed with trees sticking through, and towards my Aunt's house several were reduced to one or two rooms. No one died on her street to our knowledge, so there was comfort and wonder as we came upon her neighbor's house which now consisted of a concrete slab, one bath and 3 walls of a bedroom. The hand towels were still neatly hung on the towel rack and the bathroom mirror was untouched. If he had chosen any other room, he may not have been so lucky.
My Aunt's house looked remarkably normal, as did most on her side of the street. Six shutters were missing from the front windows and a giant tree was laying down in the front yard; the front and back of her mailbox was missing. My Aunt's hand shook as she tried to put the key in the door, still overwhelmed by the drive. We entered to find a 12-foot branch standing straight in her living room; the wind had shot it like a missile through her roof and it stood slanted on her floor.
She showed us the closet in which she hid during the storm - the same one my grandmother had stuffed me and my brother into under the threat of severe weather. I still remember her packing pillows on top of our heads and telling us that she'd open the door and let us out once it was safe. I never thought then what she was planning to do if a tornado came through. It never mattered; we always got out within fifteen minutes or so after the storm passed.
My Aunt wasn't as lucky. After hearing the roar of the tornado make its way past her house, she tried to open up the door to get out. The storm shifted the house and she was stuck, unable to make her exit. After an hour she heard voices and screamed for help and her neighbors were able to break her free. She then called her son to let him know that she was alive.
We gathered photographs and family Bibles, clothes and treasured books. We gathered all that she could think of to save, just in case moisture was able to make its way into the house and ruin her belongings. Once we were finished cleaning out the refrigerator and sweeping away all of the broken glass from the back windows, we headed outside to help the men take branches and sawed tree trunks to the street. We then moved on to her neighbor's house, and her neighbor's neighbor, and our volunteers tarped the roofs and sealed the windows and cut up the trees that had fallen on their houses. I picked up trunks and branches and I took it to a pile over and over and over again, and I could have done it all day because I knew that at some point it needed to be done, and at this point I needed to do something. Towards two p.m., there were stacks of branches and tree trunks and twisted metal and trash sitting at the street waiting for pickup. The piles may sit there for months, but we all had faith that at some point someone would come and take it away. At least, that's what we hoped.
I guess it's not indescribable. It's a tragedy. It's a nightmare. It's a setback. It's a storm. It's so many things to so many people, but it has changed the lives of thousands in one swoop over just a few hours.
My name is Jaime, and I will never forget.
