It’s hard to believe it’s been 50 years since my wife saved the lives of our children and gave us new life

Fifty years ago today a record wave of tornadoes swept the Midwest. The largest hit Xenia, Ohio, leading to more then 30 deaths, hundreds of injuries and destruction of almost half the town. It could have been a day that ended our family, but it wasn’t.

            IT’S BEEN 50 years. Hard to believe.

            April 3, 1974. 4:40 p.m. A day that terrified our family, scarred us in some ways but also strengthened us. 

            I was in my office at the Xenia (Ohio) Daily Gazette that afternoon. My wife was at home, in our small starter home on Buckskin Trail, with our five-year-old daughter Andrea and our six-week-old son, Seth. And our Doberman Pinscher Baron. 

            Around 4 p.m. a Greene County sheriff’s deputy’s voice came over our police scanner. He was yelling something about a huge tornado near Bellbrook, then nothing. I grabbed the phone and called Connie, who had “Sesame Street” on for the kids. I told her to switch to Channel 7 where weatherman Gil Whitney had the only radar in the area. A few minutes later more confirmations came over the scanner and I called Connie back.

            “This looks real,” I told her. “You need to take cover.”

            “I know, the southwest corner,” said this Kansas-raised woman.

            “NO!” I said. “That’s only when you have a basement. Go the laundry room and lie on the floor.” The laundry room had short-wall construction, less like to get whipped in the winds.

            Randy Blackaby and I grabbed our cameras ran down the stairs where we found Publisher Jack Jordan herding people into the basement. “Where are you guys going?” he asked in a yell. “To cover a tornado,” we answered. “No, you’re not,” Jack said. It was maybe the only time I ever disobeyed a direct Jack Jordan order.

            Randy and I drove his car down to St. Brigid’s Catholic Church and parked. To the west of town we saw what looked liked smoke where the Koehler Furniture factory stood. “Damn,” I said to Randy, “we have a tornado coming and the furniture factory is on fire!” Randy took another look and said “Rich, that fire is moving.”

            SO IT WAS. In a few minutes we were being bombed by roof trusses and all manner of debris. We jumped in the car, only to find out preferred escape route blocked by a train, the tail end of which would end up scattered along several blocks. We high-tailed it down Third Street with the funnel chasing us. I was leaning out the window taking picture of the world behind me blowing up. Suddenly the car stopped! The driver in front of us had stopped for a red light at Third and Detroit Streets.

            After what seemed like an eternity, he moved and we turned the corner south. We went a block and got out and looked back. A gray wall was moving through downtown. Odd. Two blocks away a downtown was being destroyed and there was barely a breeze where we were.

            We spent some time working our way around to the Arrowhead subdivision where I lived. At some point I knew it had been hit. I left Randy and took off on foot, stopping to get a guide in the son of Tom McCatherine, our news editor. He took me to our neighborhood and when I saw what was left of it, I sent him home.

            Our house was a shambles. Three outer walls were left. One of our cars was in the living room. I stood in the street, frozen. I could not move. My legs were leaden and I felt dizzy. A part of me said “you have to go help them.” Another part of me said “They are dead. Your life is over.” I don’t know how long I stood there, a statue of indecision, loss and fear.

            Finally the voice of a neighbor cut through to me. “They are OK. They are down at Mary and Joe’s.” I cried. Then I moved, down to Mary and Joe’s house on the corner, which somehow had come through unscathed.

            My wife had taken the kids into the laundry room. She had laid herself down on top of them. She held them close while the wind roared and she heard the screaming of wood and nails being separated, felt insulation and debris coming down on her. She laid there and held them close while the world exploded around them.

            IN THE MONTHS that followed we relocated to a tenant house on a Clinton County hog farm. Our dog, Baron, turned up and was glad to see us. I went to work during the day and prepared for her September entry into the University of Dayton School of Law. The Gazette shifted to a morning paper since we lost so many schools our students had to go to classes later afternoon into the evening at the Beavercreek schools. We lost our carrier force.

            It has been 50 years, but it feels like yesterday. Today it is raining. Storms are raging through the Midwest, as they did 50 years ago. Our children are grown. Connie, the lawyer, teacher, community worker and woman who laid on top of our children and saved their lives and our futures is in a memory care unit, brought down by dementia.

            Fifty years ago, in Mary and Joe’s living room. I hugged her and held her close. Tonight, in the memory care unit, I will hug her and hold her close and probably cry. While her short-term memory is becoming suspect, her long-term memory is intact, and I know she will remember that day. I know she will hug me back.

            Then, I will thank her for everything she was, and deep inside, still is. I will thank her for what she did 50 years ago today.

I will thank for everything that has come between that hug of 50 years ago and the hug of tonight and I will tell her that I have loved her from the first day I met her and will love her until my last breath. 

            Rich Heiland, has been a reporter, editor, publisher/general manager at daily papers in Texas, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Ohio and New Hampshire. He was part of a Pulitzer Prize-winning team at the Xenia Daily (OH) Daily Gazette, a National Newspaper Association Columnist of the Year, and a recipient of the Molly Ivins First Amendment Award from the Walker County (TX) Democrat Club. He taught journalism at Western Illinois University and leadership and community development at Woodbury College in Vermont.  Since 1995 he has operated an international consulting, public speaking and training business specializing in customer service, general management, leadership and staff development with major corporations, organizations, and government. Semi-retired, he and his wife live in West Chester, PA. He can be reached at heilandrich1@gmail.com.