That’s my hometown: Horror, devastation and the President, a week in Mayfield, Ky | Schorr
“Our church is gone.”
The words, spoken by my parents’ neighbor over the phone, hung in the darkness. For several seconds – several long seconds – there was no other sound, just the empty silence that reiterated her words.
Moments before, the only sound we heard was a faint rumble, like an engine somewhere in the distance. The noise was hard to label. All at once, it sounded like a generator, a car and a train.
Before that, the only sound was from television meteorologists all but begging viewers to take shelter, while struggling to hold back tears as they described the level of threat their radar showed.
Then, the lights went out.
Then, came the aforementioned rumble.
Speechless: Stewart County tornado sounded like freight train, damage unbelievable
Lucky to be alive: Tennessee woman survives EF-2 tornado ripping through her Stewart County home
It was the neighbor’s words, however, cold and simple, that remained with me. Somehow, they both understated what just happened while also describing it better than any paragraph.
The church she spoke of was First United Methodist. It was nearly 200 years old, almost as old as the town it called home, Mayfield, Ky. I grew up there. I was baptized there. My wedding reception was held there.
And it was gone. Not damaged. Just gone.
It was pure happenstance I was back in my childhood home when Mother Nature felt it necessary to destroy the place. I was visiting family, hoping for, of all things, a date night the following evening with my wife while the grandparents babysat. We knew storms were in the forecast Friday, but we had no idea the danger that awaited.
EF-2: Cleanup begins across Middle Tennessee counties ravaged by EF-2, smaller tornadoes
Tornado: Dickson tornado victims’ recall destruction around them: 'Please Lord, let us live'
That noise, that strange rumbling mixture, was an EF4 tornado chewing its way past my parents’ home. It left their house and surrounding neighborhood unscathed, but unleashed its fury on the downtown area.
Before I came to Clarksville, I used to visit Mayfield’s City Hall and County Courthouse every morning to meet with the mayor, the sheriff, police, deputies and more about news for the day. Often, I found them gathered over coffee and, yes, doughnuts.
I did that for eight years.
Before me, my editor at the time did it for several decades.
The storm ripped both buildings apart in minutes. It tore away roofs, shattered windows and carried the resulting debris for miles before depositing it across the county.
Meanwhile, alongside First Methodist, the storm destroyed First Christian Church and what was, until then, the oldest church in town, First Presbyterian. It then leveled any and every structure unfortunate enough to stand nearby.
Pictures trickled in via social media. With no power, no internet and meager cellular signals, they trickled in slowly on Facebook. We huddled around the only phone getting any signal – my mother’s – and stared at the rubble that was once our home.
Then, with nothing else to do, we slept. My son and I huddled together on the floor in absolute darkness, save the light offered by my iPad, which had a handful of Ducktales episodes downloaded.
By morning, I felt what I’ve come to describe the “journalist’s itch.”
“I need to see it,” I told Amanda. “It’ll hurt to see it, but I need to see it.”
“You’re like the person who slows down to see a car wreck,” she said.
She was partially right. I was, in fact, the person who pulls over, gets out of his car and goes to talk to the police officer about said car wreck. Oh, and I take pictures.
“They don’t want people down there,” she added. “It’s already crowded, and none of the buildings are safe.”
“I know, but I still need to.”
So, we went. And I saw it. And I was right. It hurt to see it.
Before that morning, I could look at the corner of any building and recognize what part of Mayfield it called home. I didn’t need to know a single street name – although I knew them all – to navigate the place. It was home. It was always home.
Now, I didn’t recognize anything.
Everything, everywhere was pure, unfiltered devastation. Trees were uprooted and lying over driveways and cars. Houses were smashed, roofs either caved in or flung across the street. Buildings were piles of unidentifiable brick and wood.
It wasn’t home. Not anymore. It was, at the risk of being hyperbolic, hell.
I felt tears sting at my eyes but held them back. I was driving, and the last thing I needed was blurred vision while navigating destruction at a level I’d never seen before.
In the days to come, I would return to my hurting home carrying supplies. I would drop them off and return to the safety of Clarksville, feeling inadequate and useless. The town that reared me, that still considered me one of its own despite my departure in search of opportunity, was mortally wounded, and I couldn’t do anything that felt worthwhile.
All I could do was stand and watch it bleed. But then, there came another sound.
Like the haunting words of that awful night, they stayed with me. I hear them even now, and I hear them as I sleep.
Mayfield’s Mayor, Kathy O’Nan, in a press conference I saw via a poor iPhone recording, told all of America, “Pray for us now, but we’re going to be OK.”
She said it with a smile, a smile I’d seen so many times in my life. Kathy was a member of my parents’ church. Before entering public office, she taught children’s choir there, and I was one of her students.
She flashed that smile at us on many occasions when she didn’t feel we smiled enough while singing during church. Then, to make us smile, she threw on a pig mask – silly and cartoonish, not scary, by the way – in front of the entire congregation.
She also taught history at Mayfield High School, where I graduated alongside her oldest daughter. She smiled that same mischievous smile there before quizzes and tests. It made you laugh, and it made you feel safe.
“We’re going to be OK,” she said. “We’re going to be OK.”
It was ridiculous. OK? Half the town was gone. How could things ever be OK again? Who in their right mind would believe such a thing?
She did. And soon, Mayfield did, as well.
Less than 24 hours after posts of grief and agony accompanying endless pictures of devastation, there came declarations of hope. The hashtag #mayfieldstrong appeared, and people rallied behind it.
Then, the President of the United States arrived.
In all of Mayfield’s history, only one other President set foot within its city limits, and that was just an unscheduled campaign stop. This time, the President came with the intention of entering our town, walking our streets, meeting our leaders.
He brought the full power of his office – which yes, was as much for his own political gain as my town’s wellbeing – and set in motion efforts to rebuild and rehabilitate the community. It would take time, years in fast, but the process was in motion.
And there, right there with the President, was Kathy.
She greeted President Biden on Broadway with that trickster-y, endearing smile and walked with him past the rubble. She never looked lost or grieved, only ready for the challenges ahead. She was ready to push her community the way she pushed us in children’s choir and in high school.
Mayfield – the unassuming town no one knew until last week – has endured many things in its history. A tire plant that once employed most of the town shuttered its doors almost two decades ago, leaving behind a giant, hollow building and thousands unemployed, but they persevered. The plant was leveled and converted into a business park that now houses a gas station and farm equipment store, and it’s ready to bring in more.
After that, Mayfield briefly appeared in national headlines when people who didn’t even live there flooded City Hall to prevent a Muslim Community Center from opening. Mayfield’s actual citizens then attended a City Council meeting weeks later with a petition demanding the city’s leaders make that situation right, and allow the center to be established.
I love Clarksville. I’m proud to call it home, and I never miss a chance to tell people what a great community it is. But Mayfield will always be my first home. When it’s hurt, I feel that hurt. When it weeps, I still weep with it. When it disappoints me, I cringe and shake my head. When it does what’s right, I feel pride.
And when it perseveres, as it’s doing now, I nod and smile, not unlike its current mayor. I smile and say, “You see that? That’s my hometown.”
Matt Schorr is a regular columnist for the Clarksville Leaf-Chronicle. Reach him at mattschorr@hotmail.com, on Twitter at @themattschorr and on Instagram at @theschorr. His website is www.mattschorr.net.
This article originally appeared on Clarksville Leaf-Chronicle: Tornadoes in Mayfield, Kentucky: Horror, devastation and the President
