PRESSED BETWEEN THE PAGES
DeAnn (Wolkow) Kruempel
When Life Gives You Storms
It began slowly. Three successive clunks on the roof. Then a few more until soon the pounding noise came in deafening waves that matched the howl of the wind through the trees. Through my window, I watched the ice marbles hit the ground and bounce before settling among the fading red tulips. Memories pressed between the pages of my mind opened and I recalled hailstorms from our growing up years on the farm.
A devastating storm came in July, 1967. The warm, sunny afternoon gave no warning of the massive destruction to come. The sky darkened as though a curtain had been pulled over the sun. The ominous black cloud slithered over the land, leaving its mark. Misshapen ice chunks as big as golf balls hammered the earth, leaving four-inch drifts of demolition. In minutes rows of shiny green plants reaching for the sun were pounded into short naked stubs.
Delmer, unaware of the storm, had driven to De Smet where he was to play in a Legion game. A few minutes after he arrived at the baseball field, his Erwin teammates showed up.
“Delmer, a hailstorm just ripped through our area. Looked like your farm was hailed out.”
When Delmer went home that night, he wondered if our farm could survive such a loss. The livestock depended on the crops for feed and bedding. The grains provided food as well as income; excess was sold or stored for later when prices rose. Our lives relied on the strong, green plants that thrived in that once-prairie soil. In my brother’s mind was our father’s heartfelt description of the demise of his father’s farm when the drought obliterated crops year after year in the thirties.
Dad saw the worry in his young son’s eyes as he sat next to him that night. After the storm, Dad had driven around the sections, assessing the damage of each field. Already, he had a plan. “We can replant the worst fields. It’s not too late for a crop of millet. We can grind it and feed it to the hogs.” Delmer’s worries dropped a couple notches. Dad went on: “I think some of the corn will recover. It won’t make much corn, but we can cut it for silage for the cattle.”
Proud of Delmer’s maturity, our father assured him that our farm would survive. The man knew that storms were part of life. He was determined to make the best of it, not only because the family depended on it, but because of the lessons it would teach his children.
Earlier that day after the storm, I sat next to our father as he drove down the gravel roads surrounding the fields. Pickup windows rolled down, the sour smell of perishing green life wormed its way in to taunt us. My 12-year-old brain processed the devastation.
Dad’s silence worried me more than anything. I stared out the window, then turned to him. I willed him to say something. I needed to know that everything would be ok. He must have read my thoughts, for that understanding twinkle flashed in his eyes. Likely, he figured I was too young to worry about losing the farm. He talked. We would be all right. He explained that this is why we have livestock; farmers know not to put all their eggs in one basket. Storms happen.
That’s the way life is. We go on. By the time we drove back into the yard I felt better. I hoped my dad did, too.
Dorothy remembers a storm years before, when Delmer and I were little. The family watched from the kitchen windows as marble-size hail poured from the sky. In minutes, the yard was covered in white. When the storm had blown over, everyone headed outside. Dad’s eyes met Mom’s with a knowing grin. “Let’s get this hail into buckets. We’ll make ice cream!”
The same life lesson, only under happier circumstances: When life gives you hail—make ice cream!
The author’s column appears in a growing number of Midwest newspapers. Kruempel compiles and publishes the column stories every year. She has also published a historical fiction series, “Promises to Keep.” Her ten books are available on Amazon.
Signed copies may be purchased at the Harrison County Welcome Center. Contact Kruempel at deannkruempelauthor@gmail.com.
