Remembering Pearley 'Pete' Poling, a man of quiet strength
When you write books on local history, you meet many people from all walks of life.
With that task comes the knowledge that, inevitably, those who share memories will pass away, and those words become a preserved part of their life story.
I took the loss of one of the hundreds of people I interviewed over the years hard this past week: a family man, a farmer, who never wanted to be in the spotlight.
Pearley "Pete" Poling was a rare man; kind, humble, who believed in a firm handshake. My grandparents knew his family, the Poling name often mentioned in the Cherry family diaries. In reflecting on Pete's life, I'm in a way giving him attention he never sought, and my heart wrestles with that. At the same time, I have carried Pete's spirit with me for years, and his quiet resolve has had significant impact on my life.
Growing up, I saw Pete and his family at inter-church and community gatherings. After I finished my Addison history book in 1997, I started to look into the 1965 Palm Sunday tornado, a topic that was until then an elusive subject.
It was because of that tragedy on April 11, 1965, that Pete Poling found his life irrevocably changed and forever attached to the events of that night with which no one, including Pete, could or would ever want to be associated. He lost family that night and in the days to follow. I'll refer readers to my book, “Night of the Wind,” for the rest on that.
In early 2000, after another survivor agreed it was time to fully record the stories about the tornado, I made a hard decision to call Pete.
I partially dialed, hung up, dialed and hung up again. The 35th anniversary was a little over two months away. Do I include the family's steadfastness in the midst of heartache and loss? I struggled for several days whether to complete the call.
Finally, I called. Pete agreed to talk with me about "that night."
"But you need to come here," I was told. I agreed.
What Pete had shared in bits and pieces over the years to the curious and media outlets required a sit-down at his dining room table, face to face, eye to eye. It was a demonstration of respect among gentlemen.
On March 9, 2000, with Pete at one end of the table, his wife to his right and me at the other end, I wrote down every word he said. He spoke quietly, deliberately, hands clasped, yet longer than I anticipated. We spoke as neighbors; of my grandpa and my great-uncle, who worked with Pete's lost brother, Jim, at Addison Community Schools.
Eventually, Pete's voice trailed off. He talked more about "that night" than I had read in other accounts. He was weary, but it seemed something cathartic transpired. We shook hands and exchanged a brief nod.
As Mrs. Poling saw me to the door, she told me, "Pete told you about 80% of what happened. That's more than he's ever shared." I knew what her eyes said. The other 20% would stay with only him and his loved ones. I offered quiet thanks, apologized for the late hour and for anything that might reopen wounds. I cried on the 10-minute drive home; grief at what I had heard, humbled that Pete trusted me with what he shared, and the responsibility of protecting those words with dignity and integrity. It was not something I took lightly.
Following the book's release in 2004 to benefit the Lenawee County Historical Society Museum, the family came to my book signing to obtain copies for their children and grandchildren. In the years after, I did my best to let my interview be the last time we spoke about 1965. I think it came up once in conversation, briefly, but otherwise we talked about life, family, farming, the Poling grandkids whom Pete adored and God.
When the milestone anniversaries came around, I had taken on, with the survivors' blessing, the responsibility of being the disaster's spokesman. Life took me to a different location, and the last time I saw Pete was at a high school graduation party. We shared a joke, and he looked around at his children and grandchildren with a quiet smile. He was blessed.
I have been working on an expanded version of my book on that night, and my journeys were to take me past Pete's home June 11. I had planned to stop by and say hello as neighbors do. It was not meant to be.
On June 5, 2022, with his first tractor parked outside his picture window, Pete joined his parents, brother and ancestors in Heaven, restored and free of all earthly burdens.
I reflect on the Bible verse Pete reminded me of 22 years before, a verse that applies tonight as it did then: Job 1:21, "...the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
Dan Cherry is a Lenawee County historian.
This article originally appeared on The Daily Telegram: Dan Cherry: Remembering Pearley 'Pete' Poling
