www.theorganicprepper.com
Dear Diary, It’s Me, Jessica: Part 14
Missed the other parts? Find them here:
Check out Part 1
Part 2 is here.
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Dear Diary,
It’s me, Jessica.
“Tornado!” Mr. Miller shouted.
He was looking toward the side we had brought the horses in from the front.
Just above the horizon in the dark greenish gray, nearly black sky, a funnel was forming, swirling, reaching down toward the earth. A moment later, it became a column of not only cloud, but also dirt and debris. There was no way to tell how far away it was.
“Make a ramp for the horses! Billy! Unhitch the Percherons! Keep them calm!” Mr. Miller shouted again and began dropping the concrete sacks at the base of the loading dock. The concrete loading dock platform was to slick for the horse’s shoes to get traction. They would likely slip and fall or worse, break a leg if they attempted to jump up on the platform. The single set of stairs with steel handrails were too narrow.
Nate and Dad jumped down from the platform and began to make the ramp as Mr. Miller, Jack and Justin passed down the concrete sacks. They had a dozen sacks stacked, three across but only made one row against the platform. They need more. Much more.
“Form a chain,” Jack shouted to Mr. Miller and Justin. Jack and Justin had to run several feet to pass off the sacks to each other from inside the cargo bay and then to Mr. Miller who passed them down to Nate. Nate then passed the sacks off to Dad as he made the ramp. Their effort seemed to take forever.
The horses, eyes wide, pranced in circles as Rae and I tried to keep them calm. Billy got the Percherons unhitched, and he was doing his best to calm the two massive horses.
The rain and hail stopped, but the wind increased to a low roar. The trees swayed from one side to the other. With a sharp crack, I could hear above the wind one tree split in half, the halves falling to the ground with a crash. The wind was so strong it brought tears to my eyes. Debris, trash were flying through the air or rolling along the ground.
“Done!” Dad yelled.
“Get the horses up here!” Mr. Miller shouted down to us.
Rae led, I followed, and Billy brought up the rear. The first horse needed to be forced up the ramp of concrete sacks, Mr. Miller pulling the reins, as Rae pushed them by the saddle. Once the horse and Rae were up and out of the way, I did the same. We lead them into the cargo bay, their shoes clattering on the concrete. The Percherons seemed to get the idea and strolled up the ramp in two strides. Once the horses were in, Jack ran over to the side of the rolling door and began to pull the chain to close it.
I looked out in time to see the tornado. It looked like a giant finger of dark swirling clouds had punch down through the darkened sky, the tip of the finger slowly moving back and forth.
The door closed, and the whole cargo bay plunged into darkness.
A moment later, Jack turned on his flashlight, then Dad after him.
“Everyone okay?” Mr. Miller asked in a raised voice. All of the men were sweating and breathing heavily from the effort to build the ramp.
Mr. Miller and Justin took the horses from Rae and me to keep them calm. They seemed better, but they were still clearly nervous.
The rolling door buffeted, flexed and rattled with the winds. It was made of metal but suddenly I was afraid it would not hold. I had a moment where I imagined the wind would rip it out and us with it into the awesome force of the tornado. Everyone else must have had a similar thought and we backed away from the door. The horses followed without needing to be led.
Jack and Dad pointed their flashlights at the door. Suddenly the door no longer buffeted but bowed inwardly at what seemed impossible for it to do. Not just at the bottom of the rolling door, I could see faint daylight around the edges as the door was pressed by the wind inward. We heard something crash outside.
I have read where people described the sound of a tornado like a freight train passing at full speed.
This was worse. It was as if banshees from Hell itself were outside that door, screaming to get in. It was even more terrifying than The Battle of Four Corners. There was no defense from the raw, awesome power of nature. No rifle, no bullet could stop her. We were at her mercy.
Entry two
Diary, as soon as it had come, it passed.
The sound of the wind suddenly faded.
The rolling door settled into its normal position, straight up and down as if nothing had happened.
“Is it over,” I asked, my voice sounded so small in the quiet. It was also shaking a little.
No one answered at first.
Rae then answered, her voice not much better than mine,
“Yes. I think so.”
“Jack,” Mr. Miller said, “The door.”
Jack looked over his shoulder,
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I am.”
Jack looked questioningly, but walked over to the chain to open the door. He paused for a moment, then pulled the chain. The door slowly raised.
The overhang was gone.
The flat bed was flipped on one side up against the loading dock platform.
But that was not the worst. Not a hundred yards away was a path of absolute destruction. Every single home was gone. Only the foundations remained. Everything from ground level was stripped clean. Trees gone. Vehicles had been tossed. There was a school bus upside down, and the roof was crushed from the impact of falling from a height unknown. The remains of homes littered the ground in some spots. In others, it was nothing but raw dirt.
I looked around in the sky. To the East, the storm was fading into the distance. The tornado was nowhere to be seen. To the West, the sky was clear. It was like the difference between night and day.
Mr. Miller called for the other men to right the flatbed.
Rae, Billy, and I led the horses back down the ramp. The horses sensed that the threat had passed and were more relaxed.
While Rae and I tended to the horses, Billy hitched up the Percherons to the righted flatbed.
The others went back into the store and brought out boxes of things we had come for. Tools, screws and nails, tape, adhesives, four whole spindles of rope of different sizes, fire brick, refractory cement, three four wheeled garden carts. Lastly, they loaded up the concrete sacks.
Mr. Miller and Justin took to their horses and took point. We slowly made our way through the destruction. Sometimes, we had to backtrack to go around an obstacle, like half of a house that had been dropped in the middle of the road, a large tree on its side, roots and all, or a pile of debris. Other parts looked like they had been cleared for us as a personal favor. Once we finally got clear, Justin noted that we likely did not gain or lose time but just broke even. If we pushed hard, we could make home just after noon.
Entry three
The next day, it was still hot, but not as hot as before. Mom said they heard the storm in the distance but did not get any rain. Dad and I humped it to the Miller’s.
Mr. Miller and Billy were in the corral with two young steers. They were the steers Mr. Miller was bottle raising to get them used to being handled and then train them to be beasts of burden. They started out by putting blankets across the steers’ backs and halters on their heads, leading them around the corral by rope using feed to entice them. Then they moved to a single yoke, and now they were up to a team yoke Mr. Miller and Billy had carved out of a length of wood and pulling a light load. Billy walked behind them and would make a two-tone whistle while pulling gently on the reins to turn them either left or right.
Mr. Miller said he was surprised at how well it was going. He was over at the Anderson farm last week, where they were trying the same thing. Three of the four steers were doing well with the training. The fourth was giving them problems. He did not like anything on its back and kept charging, tossing even a blanket off.
Mr. Miller asked me to help Billy with the steers’ training while he and Dad discussed the irrigation pump.
Billy taught me the whistle tones, which one meant left, which one meant right, and how to use the reins. I was driving them around the corral in a matter of minutes. After about half an hour, Billy had me drive them into the barn to get the other two steers for their training. Billy said they train them for an hour each every day. After we finished training the second team of steers, we put them back in the barn, gave them some hay, and watered them.
We went out the front to find Mr. Miller, Justin, and Dad standing next to the old truck’s rear drivetrain, two short but wide logs with a V-notch cut into each of them and four steel breaker bars, each six feet long. The idea was to have two of the men on each side of the end of the drivetrain, who would slip a breaker bar under the drivetrain close to where the wheel would have been. They then would use the leverage of the breaker bars and lift one end, and I would push the log under the axle, where it would rest in the V-notch. Then we do it again on the other side. It took a bit of effort on everyone’s part but we did it in short order.
Mr. Miller asked Billy and I to hitch up the Percherons and bring them out while they finished. Fifteen minutes later, the horses hooked up to the length of wood attached to the drivetrain axle, the pump attached, a hose in a full fifty-five-gallon water trough going to one end of the pump, and the soaker hose attached to the other end of the pump, at Dad’s word, Billy began leading the Percherons around. There were a few funny noises in the pump, but the soaker hose began to fill, and water came out of the holes in a steady stream. Everyone began smiling. Mr. Miller shook Dad’s hand, and Justin did too. Dad did his awful politician handshake and smile.
I rolled my eyes.
Then, the not-so-fun part began. We swapped out the soaker hose for a transfer hose and dragged it out to the first row of corn, then attached the soaker hose to the transfer hose and laid it out in the row. It was hot, sweaty work. It was even hotter in the cornfield. Mr. Miller and Dad both took notes. Next year, Mr. Miller would widen the rows of corn to make it easier to get in between rows. Dad was already making a new design to improve the pump’s performance.
It was a long, hot day, but a good one.
When Dad and I returned home, we found nearly everyone was there. It was our turn to host dinner. Rae, Kathy, Joan, Allison, and Joanna were all in the kitchen making dishes or just finishing up. With the heat, most everything was some dish not requiring cooking or just the minium.
Jack, the HAM guy and Sam were outside, tending to the grill for what needed to be cooked. Samson was lying down watching them. When the big dog saw me, tail wagging, he got up and came over to me to demand attention with face kisses.
As we ate dinner, I slipped Samson treats, and they talked about various things.
Tomorrow was militia training day. After The Battle of Four Corners, there were some things Jack wanted to focus on, such as maneuver warfare. At first, I did not understand, but as he described what he intended in training, I knew exactly what he meant.
Jack also said The Battle of Four Corners delayed the meeting the community was supposed to have. He said, “In light of recent events, I think it is even more important we have that meeting. We need to have a frank and honest discussion about leadership and the direction the community is going in.”
HAM guy added that on the nets he was hearing more and more of communities forming their own government. A few groups are claiming to be the new federal government, from as far away as the East or West coast. HAM guy said some of them are clearly crackpots. But a few have some degree of legitimacy, quoting Constitutional rule of law. He is torn as to whether it is legit or not.
Jack asked, “Does it matter? Without the means to enforce their proclamations from thousands of miles away, how do they intend to force us to accept them as the legitimate form of government? We have to deal with what we have here, in front of us. Like the gang.”
Rae said she thought we now had the people who could form a school. She would bring it up at the militia training after Jack talked about the leadership and direction the community was going in. Rae admitted she was expecting some degree of intense discussion. What was to be taught in our school? Some people were religious. Others were not. Some had specific ideas of what should be taught while others may object. She said with a sigh in her Southern accent, “It will be as difficult as walking on a hog-fat waxed tightrope to make everyone happy. In the end, no one will be happy.”
Diary, I am not sure how I feel about that.
But I am thinking on it.
About 1stMarineJarHead
1stMarineJarHead is not only a former Marine, but also a former EMT-B, Wilderness EMT (courtesy of NOLS), and volunteer firefighter.
He currently resides in the great white (i.e. snowy) Northeast with his wife and dogs. He raises chickens, rabbits, goats, occasionally hogs, cows and sometimes ducks. He grows various veggies and has a weird fondness for rutabagas. He enjoys reading, writing, cooking from scratch, making charcuterie, target shooting, and is currently expanding his woodworking skills.
The post Dear Diary, It’s Me, Jessica: Part 14 appeared first on The Organic Prepper.
New Posts (Home)
ChatBox
Popular Posts 
Game Zone
Top PodCasts
