After the clouds moved out and the roar settled, you caught a peek of the silver lining. Inexplicable disaster is sometimes that way.
The winds that a week ago took out an entire town not far from here have blown before. That does not in any way lessen the devastation and heartache wreaked by the vicious tornado that hit Fairdale on April 9. It does, however, give us chance to recall the resilience, generosity and compassion that reside in the deep recesses of the human spirit.
It’s something I recall vividly from nearly a quarter century ago, when it happened to my hometown, just south of Naperville.
The baby had been fussy that day. It could have had something to do with the still, oppressively hot and muggy air of late August. It was mid-afternoon before she’d finally quieted down in her crib upstairs, when the skies to the west began to look extraordinarily dark. Her brother and sister, the latter of whom was to start first grade the following day, were being good, quietly playing in the living room so as not to (egad!) wake the baby. I slipped into the backyard to bring in the laundry hanging limp in the sweltering, damp air. As I came back in and the volume of that passing freight train rose – sounding somehow closer than usual – I spotted them huddled under a tablecloth. So adorable.
No sirens went off to alert us before the hail started to hit, hard. The guys building the bank next door sprinted to their vehicles to take cover. The power went out.
The roar didn’t last long, and it really didn’t feel as if it had us in its cross hairs. When the winds died back, that appeared true. Our windows and roof were intact. Not even the ripening tomatoes in the garden out back had been damaged.
Still, something was horribly wrong.
Neighbors began to cluster on the sidewalk, sharing what we’d heard. Disaster can make that happen. One said there were live wires down on the other side of the highway. Another mentioned a semi truck dangling from a tree not far away.
I strapped the again-restless infant into the backpack and took each of my other little ones by the hand and we walked toward the park. Our park, where our playground had stood. The one that all of a sudden was strewn thickly with the disaster’s detritus: intermingled undergarments, uprooted old-growth hardwoods, bits of household insulation, cherished photographs that an hour or two before had perhaps sat proudly atop someone’s hutch or piano.
It was obscene. And dumbfounding.
We would learn, in the days that followed, that 29 people lost their lives when that 7-mile-long monster gouged its brutal channel through our neighborhoods. We would hear countless stories of devastation, unrelenting courage and close calls. We would see little children cling closer to their mothers’ legs and grown men cry.
We would learn, too, of the bottomless well that is human compassion.
From every direction, perfect strangers streamed into town to do what they could. Individually and by team, the people flowed in – church congregants and union members, volunteer firefighters and stay-home moms, civic organizations and clubs – all bringing along helping hands and open hearts yearning to ease the shock enshrouding our thoroughly battered town, a little hamlet helplessly and abruptly thrust onto the international map.
Alongside this unlikely battalion of angels, I joined assembly lines making sandwiches for the relief workers, that baby strapped onto my back. I helped sort through mountains of donated clothing and other goods, giving a few hours as these tireless strangers surrounding us worked endlessly.
There was more giving of stuff than we could use, too many garments and shoes and household goods to manage. What was really needed was money, but that came as well.
History, in both happy and tragic ways, does repeat itself. In Fairdale, perfect strangers now are bringing the human salve to help cushion the loss that now and then comes tearing out of the clear blue sky. Donations of empathy and cash, both desperately needed, are coming in – from likely sources, and unexpected ones as well. The Robert R. McCormick Foundation, which has a fund established by my employer under its philanthropic umbrella, launched a relief effort almost immediately after the winds died down. The split-the-pot raffle at Tuesday night’s Cubs game gathered monetary relief, which is what at this point really spells relief.
There it is, that benevolence of strangers. That silver lining.
There is some bittersweet irony in the way that, when Mother Nature shows us her worst wrath, we counter with some of the best that’s in us. It’s true that over the past few days, thanks in large part to social media and the camera pretty much every one of us has at our fingertips, we’ve seen broadcasts that show awful, shocking illustrations of humanity’s sometimes-hideous underbelly. But we’ve also witnessed a wondrous generosity inherent in our species, an irrepressible urge to fix what’s broken in our fellow humans’ lives, if we can.
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That’s what can happen when calamity strikes.
Twitter @scarlman