March 18, 1925. Though only five years of age, I well remember the day the great tornado swept over "Little Egypt", as the southern tip of Illinois is called. The little coal-mining town in which we lived lay directly in its path. The howling wind sounded as if a dozen locomotives were roaring past. We huddled in the kitchen as the roaring filled our ears and seemed to shake our very bones.

Suddenly it was over. The quietness felt unnatural and an eerie, uneasy felling gripped us. Opening the door, my mother stood transfixed as she gazed upon the awful scene. Debris lay everywhere. The street was impassable. People, some obviously in shock, milled around like cattle, unsure of what to do. The strange silence was suddenly broken by a subdued, pitiful whining at Mother's feet.

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