My mom called me this afternoon and told me to find page 11A of the Democrat-Gazette. I figured she wanted to point out an article about the Mena tornado damage, since both my parents are from Mena and we have some family there (all of whom are ok and without property damage). I pulled it out of the recycle bin, and glanced at the top picture:

It’s a house torn apart by the tornado. But upon closer inspection, I gasped and said, “Is that what I think it is? … Are you sure?” Yep—that house is, or rather was, my grandparents’ house, the house my mom grew up in almost all of her childhood, the house I grew up in for countless weekends, Christmases, Easters, Mother’s Days, summer days, whatever days.

If I had seen the picture myself first, I’m not sure I would have given it second thought. The house had a porch, you see, and looks totally different without it. But the details that remain are unmistakable—the rock work in the front, the pillars encasing the steps, the iron railings my dad installed as my grandmother grew elderly, the scroll design on the front screen door, and so on.

According to the article, the young lady who lived there has a 9-month old baby girl. Fortunately, she and her daughter took shelter in the basement of the nearby courthouse. I’m so glad they weren’t in the house. I wish I could meet her.

My brother and I used to love to “paint” the rocks around the porch. We just had cans of water and paintbrushes, but the water made it darker, so it looked like we were painting it. (What a simple, cheap way to keep a child entertained!) There was a porch swing which I loved and must have had a hundred thousand miles on it among all five grandchildren.

I have a lot of memories of that house. It’s a little hard on me, but it must be a hundred times harder on my mom and her brother. I had been wondering how the little house on Church Street had fared; I suppose seeing it pictured in the paper is one way to find out.

UPDATE: Here’s a better picture from flickr.

UPDATE: An aerial view.

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