A few thoughts as I wait for my brain to recover -- Lord-a-mighty -- from a weekend of listening to Willie Nelson and reading Rick Bragg. I'm a true son of the rural South, you see. As I slopped up my last bite of grits this morning with a little biscuit and a little red-eye gravy, I thought to myself, "Wow. Did you ever think that you would live in an area with horrible traffic and acceptable dental care?"

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Here's a neat thing: neat in the sense that it's vaguely creepy. I was actually going to post about my upbringing in rural northwest Tennessee, the old 'sweet potato pie and I shut my mouth' sort of a thing, you know? I actually typed "RoEllen, Tennessee" into Google to see what might be available, and the first link that came up was this link from the National Weather Service. Here . . . I'll post part of it for those of you too lazy to click:

RoEllen, a rural Dyer County hamlet located about five miles east of Dyersburg in Tennessee's northwest corner was struck by a tornado around 4:05 a.m. on Thursday, April 16, 1998. The National Weather Service issued a Tornado Warning at 3:35 a.m. as the tornadic thunderstorm was approaching the Mississippi River from Arkansas. Thus, the warning was posted a full half-hour before the tornado struck.
The RoEllen tornado first touched down to the west of the community. Moving rapidly toward the northeast, the tornado crossed state Highway 104 about 1.5 miles west of RoEllen (Fig. 1). At that point, the tornado produced only F-0 damage. While most of the initial damage swath was to trees, one home along Highway 104 suffered minor roof damage. The tornado then passed over open agricultural land until it crossed Welch Road. A farm's machine shed was heavily damaged just north of Welch Road's intersection with Clanton Road. The tornado then increased to F-3 intensity and completely demolished a substantial brick home located along Cribbs Road and a house trailer next door (Fig. 1, #1 & #2). Both homes were occupied.
The bodies of the house trailer's occupants, a man and wife in their mid 40s, were found near a copse of trees about 250 yards toward the southeast of where the house trailer was sited. The remnants of the house trailer were widely strewn. Heavy objects such as the water heater, stove, and clothes washer were found about 200 yards to the north. The twisted remains of the trailer's frame were found about 300 yards toward the northeast. Two lightly constructed homes between where the trailer had been and where its frame landed were not seriously damaged, suggesting the frame may have flown over them.
Residents of the brick house, a mother and teenage daughter, saw notice of the tornado warning on television. They went to shelter in a corner of the home's basement. While the tornado completely demolished their home and deposited a pickup truck on the remains, they were unhurt.

Here's the creepy part: the mother and teenage daughter in this tale of woe happen to be my mother and my sister. Our "substantial brick home located along Cribbs Road" (thank you, National Weather Service, for calling our house overweight) was demolished. I mean, DEMOLISHED. Our eccentric next-door neighbors, the Kolwycks, were killed apparently instantly.

There are few things that my leaky sieve of a memory can actually recall with perfect clarity. Strangely, most of them are insignificant moments, without real weight. Isn't it strange how you can recall the exact tint of Laurie Morgan's hair in sunlight (I sat behind her and the window in first grade) but you can't really remember what color your car is when you exit the Publix? Or what your grandmother's hands looked like?

However, pure adrenal stress has burned the memory of April 16, 1998 into my brain like a brand. I was in graduate school in Statesboro, Georgia, a mere 635 miles southeast of RoEllen when my uncle Tommy Wolaver called me from Atlanta at 6:11 AM Eastern Time. I had gone to bed around 4:00 AM, and I can't recall ever being so groggy when the phone rang. My graduate housing roommate actually answered the phone, luckily, for he was a 27 year old ex-Marine who was one of the few people actually loud enough to yell me awake. I got to the phone only to hear Tommy say something about our house being destroyed by a tornado, and that my mother and sister had to dig themselves out from under our chimney which had fallen on them in the tumult. Describing the scene, he painted a picture reminiscent of a Dore illustration of Dante's Inferno. All I knew, in my sleepy certainty, was that my house was spread across most of Dyer County, and my mother and sister desperately needed my help. Tommy, the rock of our family, even sounded worried.

"We're goin', boy. How long do you think it'll take you to get to Atlanta?"

"Don't know -- four hours, four and a half, maybe? I'm gonna hit rush hour on 285, aren't I?"

"Just know this: as soon as you get here, Tom, Todd, and I will be ready to go."

I hung up the phone, packed a small bag, and arrived in Snellville two hours and fifteen minutes later. For those of you calculating at home, that's 226 miles in 135 minutes; to put it another way, I touched 138 once between Dublin and Macon on I-16. I have ridden faster, but never again have I driven that fast.

Did I mention it was raining? The whole way?

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After the death of my father in 1994 and his mother in 1995 (Dad quite unexpectedly passed away at age 45, MeeMaw at 68; at the time my father died, MeeMaw knew she had cancer and refused treatment because, she said, with her husband and son dead she just "didn't see the use") I had few relatives left, really -- our family history is a litany of death and stupidity that causes most people to gasp with pity. I, of course, find it humorous (or even humourous, when I'm feeling frisky and British.) People have asked me where I got my sense of humor, as neither of my parents share my personal concept that everything can be laughed at . . . there are three reasons, really:

Reason 1: I am now, have always been, and will forever be the smallest kid in my class/school/family/world. I am a midget in the land of giants. I have always been short, strange, and unathletic. In our world today, but especially in rural agri-Tennessee, boys and men who are my size either develop a world-class sense of humor or an Alaskan-sized shoulder chip very quickly, 'cause we're the ones forced to prove ourselves. I couldn't carry a knife to school, but I always had my mouth.

Reason 2: Until I attended David Lipscomb University in Nashville, Tennessee, I had darkened the door of a church building maybe . . . maybe five times? Six? Three Easters, that I can recall. Christians in my neck of the woods were really more objects of fun than they were reverence (around the Denton household, anyway) so I lack an essential respect for sacred objects and ideas that I see in others around me. Strange, really, especially dealing with some of the kids in my eighth grade Bible class here at GACS . . . I have a few students (but more than you'd guess) who have enormous reverence for holy things, but absolutely no respect for authority. [NOT GENERALIZING ALERT! I SWEAR I'M NOT GENERALIZING ALERT!!!!] I have seen good kids -- great kids -- refuse correction from adults in our hallways, filtering out reprimands like so much white noise. Yet reference Jesus, God, or the Golden Rule, and they feel remorse. I was raised as an exact opposite, in some kind of weird land of doppelganger virtues, where you could laugh at God all you want, but may He help you if you ever disrespect any adult, 'cause you'll need Him when Dad hears about it.

Reason 3: You've just got to laugh if you're a member of my family, because -- not to be morbid, or anything -- everybody just died. By the time I was nineteen, I had attended over twenty funerals. Nine of them were for close family members, including all four of my grandparents (three of which had moved into our home shortly before their deaths; perhaps it was the house?) and my father who had seemed indestructible at the time. (Still does.)

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That last reason, the utter lack of family above ground, gave Tommy's words about helping family a special resonance in my mind as I made my way to Atlanta. They also gave me a kind of grim determination to not let up on the accelerator until I had established enough velocity to coast in for the last twelve miles or so.

When I arrived in Snellville, Tommy was ready. What does this mean, exactly? Well, Tommy has a $17,000 gun collection, if that gives any indication of his readiness. Tommy also happens to be one of the most successful real estate brokers in the metro Atlanta area -- he's happy to give away his trade secrets, which consist of hard work after effective planning. How do you effectively plan for a tornado? Easy. Overpack.

We had a full set of camping gear, including 14 tents and 14 sleeping bags for ourselves and anyone else who might be stuck working outside ("God bless those Boy Scouts!" said Tommy, when I asked where he had gotten them.) We had 11 Coleman lanterns, 9 shovels, 9 pick axes, 4 chainsaws, 2 buckets of fire sand, ("Better safe than sorry!") a post-hole digger, 3 12-pound sledgehammers, and, I believe, 30 pounds of peanut butter. We also had Tommy's sons Tom Jr. and Todd, otherwise known as my enormous cousins. I am not kidding you. Tom Jr. (6'4", 255) and Todd (6'2", 230) look like half of the most terrifying D-line you've ever seen. Add to the mix their good friend Jamie Rice (6'3", 270) who agreed to come along for the ride, and my uncle Tommy (well, 5'9," but he's an easy 225) and we lacked only a good defensive end for a run to the playoffs. Me? Sorry to disappoint, but at a slow 5'7", 180, I'm not really the final piece to anyone's athletic puzzle.

I parked my sporty two-seater in the driveway and leapt into the Ford Explorer.

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Looks like I'll have to serialize this one, as my planning period just ended. I'll finish this story later, for my sake, if not yours . . .