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| Tell Your Story |
Did you or someone you know live through the tornado? Submit your story to story@topekatornado.com and we may post it here. John Richmond Bartonville, Illinois On 6/8/66, I was a month away from turning 14. We lived with my Grandmother Tillotson at 1321 MacVicar, where 14th St. dead-ends. So the tornado missed us by 4-5 blocks. We were in the basement (now discredited s.w. corner, of course), with a transistor radio; after reading the book, I believe it was Bill Kurtis whose voice we heard as we listened [to the radio]. Of course, we could not see the funnel. Afterward, our yard was full of home insulation; a curtain hook was driven through a wooden trellis on the front porch; and a portion of some child's report card from somewhere in s.w. Topeka ended up in our front yard. (I remember, because the part that fell into our yard showed some distinctly less-than-perfect grades.) The next day we trudged over to the north side of 17th St. to look at Washburn, my mother's and father's alma mater (and the alma mater of about everyone in my family, from a grandfather and great-aunts in the early 1900s-on...though my brother and I chose to go to college elsewhere). I did yard work for Elisabeth Van Schaack, on the faculty at WU, and a friend of my parents. She lived on the 1800 block of Wayne (I think...don't think it was 1900). Her house was generally intact, but her yard was a mess. My mother volunteered my labor for all day on June 9--without pay! I was most annoyed, but, of course, it was the right thing to do. I went to Topeka H.S. with Irma Hillebert and Tom Cofran. Irma was in my class (1970), we played in band together, and I believe I took her to the jr. prom. I may have known that she survived the storm at MacVicar Chapel, but if so, I'd forgotten. Amazing, to find the names of people I knew. My great-aunt in Denver was able to reach us through a ham radio operator, to find out if we were all right--don't recall the story of how other family members checked in. One memory I have, but now wonder if it's faulty, and I have the timing wrong. I *thought* that the KS Conference of the Methodist Church was meeting in Topeka on June 8, at the city auditorium. My mother had volunteered--we were members of First Methodist--to drive delegates to their various hotels when evening meetings were over. My recollection is that she did that, disappearing into the night while my brother and father and I waited, anxiously, for her to come home. But I wonder if memory is distorted, since nothing about the Methodists appears in the book. My Grandmother Tillotson's childhood home, at 1329 Topeka Avenue/Boulevard, was taken by the tornado. She hardly ever spoke of the house, so I don't know if it held sentimental value for her or not. (She died in 9/1965.) But it was significant to me that the house was destroyed. Anyway, it truly is remarkable to read about an event, in such blow-by-blow detail, like the Topeka tornado. I *especially* realize how lucky we were to live where we did. One can read all sorts of books about terrible events in big cities like Chicago, Atlanta, or New York, but it is rarer to find books concerning a place as nondescript--to much of the population of the U.S., I mean--as Topeka. Much *was* lost in the tornado, like Central Park and its neighborhood. Before my parents and I moved in with my grandmother in 1955, we'd lived in a rented house on Byron. It's still there, but that whole central area of Topeka never fully recovered. I suppose that there would have been flight from the inner parts of the city, out into the county, anyway, but I have often thought that the tornado damaged Topeka in a permanent way, and truly hastened the demise of some older, established (if not grand) neighborhoods. Dr. Robert C. Snyder Hudson, Wisconsin Windy recitals are not uncommon at MacVicar Chapel, music building of Washburn University of Topeka, but the destructive tornado we experienced June 8, 1966 can claim no previous equal. Visions of swirling dirt and ruined party dresses now crowd out the memories of eager pre-concert planning which seemed so innocent weeks before. Second semester at our household had been exceedingly hectic. Jackie, my wife, had taken on a new job teaching third grade at Linn Elementary School and I, instructor of flute at Washburn, played two more solo flute recitals than usual for the year. In late May, summer vacations threatened to reduce the available students who could participate in our annual preparatory student recital, so we had to set a date early in June. Since Washburn graduation ceremonies terminated the semester on June 5 and I planned to resume study on a doctorate degree at the Kansas City Conservatory of Music June 13, the week of June 6 looked free and flexible. We picked Wednesday June 8 for the above reasons and because it provided two additional weeks for preparation and organization. The Wednesday evening of the recital arrived with moderately cloudy skies and reports of tornados northwest of Topeka near Clay Center. Normally, tornado clouds travel slowly northeastward, and certainly by the time the Clay Center storm system would have traveled eighty miles (distance to Topeka) the center should have been in Nebraska. When the well-dressed students arrived at MacVicar with their parents, they were surprised to find that the Piano Guild Auditions were still in progress upstairs in the Chapel. Mrs. Dalton, chairman of the guild auditions came out of the door and announced that they would be finished very soon. She carried a large portable transistor radio in her hand. Although it was on, it was not speaking very clearly or loudly. She must have brought it to check on the weather. I hollered downstairs for everyone to come up so we could get started. Programs were passed out and the 13 students, aged about 10 to 17 took their places near the front of the auditorium. Forty parents, relatives, and friends settled near the center of the hall. Jean Tarnower had just built up courage to start the program when the dreaded siren sounded over the tree tops from the still-intact Central Park Elementary School. Tornado Warning. Without hesitation I suggested moving the recital to a basement room until the storm passed. Storm experts recommend strongly that one take shelter in the southwest corner of the basement, but at MacVicar Chapel that meant a room where the piano was badly out of tune. The big northeast room held the most promise because it contained enough chairs to seat everyone. I struck a few notes on the piano and decided that it too was too far out of tune to use for a recital. As a last resort, fathers and brothers transferred the chairs from the northeast room to my teaching studio in the southeast corner of the basement. Although my studio piano played slightly flat, the students liked the familiar surroundings. Jean Tarnower played the Dorothy Dance and everyone forgot for a moment where he was. When she finished, Ralph Drayer placed his bassoon support strap on a chair, turned to the piano, and had played one-half of his solo when the atmosphere outside the partly opened window suddenly changed. Light rain turned to horizontally driving ugly black dirt. Cool breezes changed to a pounding roaring wind. The lights went out and everyone in the room trembled in terror. We tried to find something to hide under. I urged Tom Cofran to crawl under the corner desk; Gilbert Boodger hurried under the piano bench; Tom Targownik sheltered Freda Peterson. Somehow Mrs. Hillebert and Mrs. Fletcher grabbed Roy Hillebert's legs both for consolation and to keep the wind from sucking him out the window. Kathy Frye, Laurie Grimshaw and Tina Wallerstein hid near their parents. Karmin Williams, Janice Fletcher, and Irma Hillebert scrambled to safety under the nine-foot grand piano with Jackie. She pressed close to Ralph who protected his bassoon by lying face down on top of it. I crouched nearby under the same giant piano with my arm covering Susie Moffet. The whirling winds smashed out the fragile window glasses and piled heavy school desk-chairs on top of parents. They had prostrated themselves on the floor in the corner opposite the piano where most of their children cowered, and tried to stay away from the wind. Blackness devoured the sunlight from the windows and swallowed all hope of escape. Dirt, pebbles, plaster dust and all hell broke loose when the tornado engulfed the Chapel. The building broke apart just as two pairs of parents vanished running into the hallway. The hall ceiling crashed to the floor soon after. Giant stones from the three-foot thick walls plummeted nearly three stories into the window wells, the yard nearby, and office space. Clouds of miniscule refuse raced across the room pelting faces and soft bare arms and legs. The hurricane-like gale outside suddenly reversed direction, blew straight west in a crescendo of torments beyond comprehension or narration. It felt like my head would explode. My ears were bursting and for a moment I was deaf. Some people in the room reported overwhelming roaring noises, while others like me heard nothing but complete silence. Only when the soot and filth settled did we realize that the worst had passed and the storm was over. With the welcome passing of the black tornado came an immediate lightening of the air and instant blue sky. Roy Hillebert pulled up a window frame although the glass was gone and helped others lift frightened children and mothers outside onto the rock-strewn lawn. Drs. Grimshaw and Wallerstein looked for the injured as soon as they had checked on their own children, and found to their surprise that almost everyone was whole, although two were badly cut. Mrs. William Tarnower suffered numerous cuts on her legs and forehead when the transom glass over the door exploded onto her, and Mark Drayer exhibited large cuts over his right ear and arm. Mrs. Tarnower needed emergency attention, so I ran outside to find my car. Between Morgan Hall and MacVicar my station wagon sat windowless and badly dented, but upright. I started the motor and signaled for Mrs. Tarnower to get in. Although the wipers didn't work, I managed to clear enough glass to see where we were going. College Street had trees lying across the street, so I had to jump a few curbs and drive through some yards to get around them. Soon after I left, a college student took Howard Drayer to Stormont Vail Hospital where news photographers were standing by. His picture entering the hospital appeared in several newspapers and Life Magazine. Several parents stayed behind to collect musical instruments and clothing from my ravaged room and helped the remaining people climb out the windows. Some of the cars in front of the Chapel were operable, some were not, but none had windows. My trunk lid looked as though someone had stood close by and shot holes into it with a 22 caliber rifle. The parents who had gone out the door into the hall escaped down a narrow hallway to the only other basement room which was not filled with tons of stone. Their European war experiences had taught them that a doorway provides exceptionally good cover in air bomb attacks. They have now added to their terrifying list of war experience the effects of tornadic wind. Oh yes, and by the way, upon returning to Washburn Campus from the hospital, my car's four tires went flat. When we looked around the building, we discovered that the basement room we first considered for the recital had filled up with Mr. Everett Fetter's grand piano, desk, chairs, from the first floor office above it. The second room filled up with Mr. Hedberg's floor and furniture. Although we hadn't thought about using the room under James Van Slyke's office, it too filled up with stones from the walls and furniture. There were only two rooms where we could have survived and my basement office was one of them. I find myself pondering why, in the face of such opposition, I was driven to schedule our recital on Wednesday. We had four distinct religious groups present in our room that evening. The building was falling around us, everybody's faith soared, and a profound ecumenical spirit filled the room. Shall we dare to say it protected us with a perfect shield impregnable even by Topeka's first and Kansas' most gargantuan tornado? Thank you for exhibiting immeasurable cool-headedness and truly inspired faith in each other. Families in attendance:
Marc Drayer Topeka, Kansas The events of that evening stick in my mind even to this day, as if it was yesterday. I don't remember much of the day itself, except that I was unusually agitated, as if something horrible was about to happen. It broke that afternoon when a tornado watch was announced. I remember crying out in fear, but told to keep quiet. Looking back, if we had stayed home where we lived in the Potwin area, we would have missed it. But my brother was to play his bassoon in a recital that evening at the old MacVicar Chapel in Washburn University. That building had always spooked me. I walked by it countless times on the way to football games at Moore Bowl, and shied away from it, especially from the open stairwell leading to the basement. And it was to that place that we were to go that evening. I remember dressing for the event and hearing my brother practice his bassoon piece, called "Allegro Spiritoso." The Batman show was playing on the TV and how I wished I could have stayed to watch it. But we had to get ready. Finally, we were off. On the way, my dad almost turned back. The sky was simply brutal, green and bumpy with mammatus clouds. We parked that 1962 Ford Fairlaine in the parking lot at Stoffer Science Hall. I always remember liking the geology displays in the building. It started to rain as we went around the sidewalk to the entrance of MacVicar Chapel, a building I had never been in before, and had spooked me for years. As we went up the stairs to the entrance, the sirens sounded. I cried out for fear again, wanting to go back. But we went in. My dad and brother went inside the sanctuary to tell them of the sirens going off while we went downstairs to the basement, soon followed by the rest who were attending the recital. We were all standing in the hallway while they looked for a room to hold a recital. I instinctively looked over to the southwest room, but it looked too small, I was sure it was just a broom closet. I found out later that the room had an old out of tune upright piano, and the room was rejected for the studio room which had a better piano, a grand piano. We set up in student desk chairs and the recital resumed. I thought the first number we heard very ominous, a clarinet piece called "Dorothy's Dance." I was thinking of what happened to Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. The piece was over, then Ralph came to play his bassoon piece, the one we later said brought the house down. While he was playing, I happened to look up out the south window, and saw what I thought at first was birds flying around. But it soon showed itself as a tornado, just over Carnegie Hall. I wondered why nobody else noticed it as it approached. The wind picked up and dirt obliterated the sight at the window. Finally a leaf blew in from under the window and the leader of the recital saw it, telling us all to lay down as the power went out. Ralph got under the piano and I got under the desk chair, a poor shelter as I found out later. I foolishly looked up to see what would happen. The east windows exploded inwards with incredible violence, then...nothing. It disappointed me. Later, I wondered about that silence that happened for what seemed to be an eternity, not a puff of wind, not a sound, except for windows shattering elsewhere in the building. Could it have been we were inside the funnel at the time, experiencing the calm people know in the eye of a hurricane? It could be possible, as several testify they were struck twice by the tornado. But then, all hell broke loose. My dad said he saw all those desk chairs rise up in the air and start to circulate around the room. It happened so fast, and I found myself sitting up, facing the opposite direction, with dirt and debris hitting my face. I was being pushed back by the winds. The sound of the winds were terrible, like a giant vacuum cleaner, with a strange vibrating sound like a jet plane straining against the sound barrier. I came to my senses then and dived between two girls for shelter. I heard one of them saying "He's bleeding," or something like that. It finally calmed down and the howling ceased. We all got up and I anxiously looked up at the roof, afraid it would cave in any minute. But it looked intact. There was no getting out the door as it was blocked. It looked like an expert stonemason had bricked it up from top to bottom. I then looked down at my shirt, and it was soaked with blood. Now was the time for me to be afraid. We climbed up out the window at the south, and the chairs were all piled against the south wall. As I looked over as we went out, that open stairway was filled with stone. I was almost happy to see it. The displays at the nearby Stoffer Science Hall were shattered, and the place around me looked so unreal. Trees were twisted in a strange way. We went around, dodging debris and downed power lines to the parking lot at Stoffer. There we saw cars piled in a big heap. Our car was one of three left there, but though it could start, we couldn't get out due to downed power lines. I remember seeing a house across the street looking like a doll house, as the whole front of it had been stripped away. Somebody was standing on the second floor looking down. One of the doctors looked at me and said the injuries were not internal and not serious. It seemed serious to me. I didn't know that scalp wounds bled so much. Finally, somebody came by in a Volkswagen, I remember his last name was Huey. Bob Huey, I think his name was. I still don't know how we all fit in there, but we did, and he took us all to the emergency room at Stormont-Vail Hospital. As I came in, somebody jumped in front and took my picture. I asked my dad if I was going to get my picture in the paper. Seems I did, and it later ended up in Life Magazine together with Rick Douglass' picture. Everybody gets their fifteen minutes of fame, but I still wish that hadn't been one of them. I was treated with stitches. They were more worried about a wound on my right arm near my elbow which went deep than the one on the side of my head. But they stiched me up. The others in my family had cuts and bruises. My sister had been covered by my mother when the tornado struck, but she stuck out her leg and it got sandblasted. We walked home from the hospital, grateful to be alive, with me talking a mile a minute. When we got home, my mom called my grandmother telling her we were all right. She said "What do you mean." She thought we had stayed home, and cried to find out that we had been at Washburn during that terrible storm. It was a frightful experience for all of us, but really, we were the lucky ones. Others fared far worse. And we will never forget that evening of June 8, 1966. (The famous picture of Marc Drayer appears on page P27 of "And Hell Followed With It." He is being escorted into the hospital by his father, Howard. Marc is incorrectly identified in the book as Ralph Drayer. The author regrets the error and will correct it in the next edition of the book. Marc's brother, Ralph, whose bassoon solo at the Washburn music recital was cut short by the tornado's arrival, can be seen in the left of the picture, just entering the hospital. Interestingly, the individuals in picture on the following page, P28, have never been identified in print but are, in fact, Mrs. Marion Drayer, Marc and Ralph's mom, and their little sister, Lynn.) Ann Cain Mission, Kansas On June 8th I was at Vacation Bible School at the Mennonite Brethren meeting house at about 18th and Fairlawn with sister Pat and brother Danny. As I colored my pictures of Jesus, I remember looking outside the classroom and seeing dark purple-black clouds gathering just south of us at "the mound" and the newly planted trees and bushes bending to the ground. There were hushed voices out in the hall and then the announcement that we were to "walk quickly" out to the driveway where we would be driven to a nearby home that had a basement. Kids piled into a big, green 1950 something behemoth and lumbered over to the home. It seemed that we spent an eternity down there crying, singing our VBS songs and praying. There wasn't the saying of the rosary and the evocation of the saints that I was used to, but more old testament "the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want" type of prayers going up. These kids knew their scriptures and I always felt a little out of place being a Catholic and not ever really studying the bible. I remember feeling comforted by having my big sister and little brother with me. Finally the "all clear" whistle was sounded and we walked up out of the basement into our changed world. A nice couple from the church took us home. I know someone must of told us that our family and home was still intact, but I remember rounding the corner and seeing our old house standing there and my mom out on the porch waiting for us and feeling such an overwhelming feeling of thankfulness and love. She had ridden the storm out with our three younger sisters, the "little girls" as we called them. Dad had come in that night from Kansas City where he had been working. As he tells it he was on needles and pins driving in for he had just canceled our home insurance policy in order to "save a few bucks." He had talked to my mom and knew we were alright, but the fact he had played it so close to the margin with our well being made him beat himself up all the way home. The next day he took us a few blocks from our house to the old Dibble's Plaza where the CBS trailer was parked and broadcasting. It was then that the enormity of what had happened that it began to sink into my seven year old brain. The rest of the summer was filled with stories of miracles-how our grandmas who were both crippled with cancer and arthritis where able to rise off their beds and make their way down to the basement. So many stories... |
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