(Photo by Nikolas Noonan on Unsplash)
Did you know I was almost killed by a tornado? It was probably around March; our weather fluctuated a lot, and in Missouri we were prone to bad weather, especially tornadoes. So when the siren sounded, I wasn’t too nervous. Dad was in a church service, and Mom was in her knitting group. Being their only child, they placed far too much freedom on me, so I really did whatever I wanted. Well, except for post office day. On that day, typically a Wednesday after school, my mother would send me on my way to pick up our mail, the groceries, and whatever else we needed for that week. It’s not like she didn’t have time to do it during the day, seeing that my dad was the sole provider. He was a preacher, so I wasn’t really sure what he did all day during the week, but I’ve learned not to question him or her.
Today, I hadn’t even stepped inside the house when my mom shoved a few dollars into my hand, along with the grocery list, and pushed me toward the road. I picked up the groceries first; we only needed milk, cheese, ham, and bread, and luckily the basket on my bike fit everything. Being eight years old, I hadn’t quite mastered steering the bicycle with one hand, and the last thing I needed to do was to try to do that with all of this food. After a quick trip to the store, I headed on over to the post office. Mike, the main worker there, had a huge smile on his face when I walked in. He already had our mail set to the side, and I grabbed the stack and shuffled towards the door. He cleared his throat, and I turned back around.
“Aren’t you going to greet me, Keith?”
“Hi, Mike,” I whispered before turning back towards the door again. He cleared his throat once more to signal me to talk to him some more.
I huffed silently.
“I’m sure Annabelle teaches you how to properly greet someone?” Mike asked. He always had a sense of authority, like people should greet him like he’s royalty, and he took every chance he could to talk to my mom. My dad always said he had feelings for her; maybe that’s why I always pick up the mail.
I shook my head and shifted the papers in my hand.
“How about school? Do they teach you any manners there?”
I shook my head again, hoping he hadn’t noticed that I’ve been slowly backing up towards the door.
He nodded slowly. “Alright, well I expect you to learn some before next week, okay? I’ll see you then?”
I mustered up a small smile, my hand on the door handle when I noticed it was a little heavier than usual. Mike, seeing my struggle, came over to help me swing it open. He turned his head and paused at the door frame for a second.
“Hear that, Keith? Sounds like the tornado siren.” He paused again, trying to confirm what he heard before saying, “Yeah, the wind is picking up too. Best stay here until the weather dies down.”
The wind didn’t look any worse than normal; hell, I rode here in this wind. Maybe the wind would propel me faster? “I’m only three blocks away, and my mom’s expecting me.” I looked up at him. “Mom wants me home; she’s waiting for me. I got the groceries in my basket.”
“I’m sure your mom would want you here, Keith. I’ve got snacks in the back; I’m sure Rodney’s got a card game or two we can play.”
“I really think I should get going.”
“Don’t be stubborn now, Keith,” He replied. Although it was no use, my mind was made up.
He looked reluctant to let me go. But after my excessive pleas, he did so anyway, only on the promise that I would call him when I got back. Turns out there was no place to call back because the tornado blew through the post office only a few minutes after I left.
(This is the first part of a retelling (somewhat fictionalized) of some of my grandparent’s memories)