It was a Palm Sunday no different than any other. The young ones meandered the aisles of the sanctuary waving their green fronds, followed by a not-real donkey and a not-real Jesus. I wondered how many palms from the South sacrificed their boughs for a Northern Indiana ritual.
The reward for making it through Sunday morning was dinner at Sam and Anna's. Grandpa Sam had caught a boat-load of perch at the marl pit and Grandma Anna fried them up in butter along with thinly sliced potatoes. She also had her standards - beans cooked with bacon and strawberry rhubarb pie.
The afternoon light suddenly turned dark. A storm was moving southwest to northeast. The thick low clouds were angry, swirling like an eddy in Turkey Creek and colored like a rainbow gone bad. Johnny and I stared at the sky, oblivious to the dangers. Then a siren went - and then another - and another until they were continuous. For hours. Slowly we learned that one of several tornadoes was a double funnel that touched down for miles. For over 200 souls, it was their last Palm Sunday.
