White Tornado
Updated: Aug 23
Chapter 9
A quarter century after my grandparents Joe and Maggie Killingsworth died, my cousin Jimmy Webb released a song titled Cottonwood Farm. Every summer, the cottonwood trees puffed out their fluffy seeds, drifting across the rows of cotton. Even though Joe and Maggie never called it that, I think they would have said the name fit just right.
Whenever I hear the title, my mind goes straight back to their farmhouse. Sometimes I close my eyes and walk through those houses so I won’t forget them—the Killingsworth place and the French place alike.
We almost always stayed at the Killingsworth farm in Mayfield, an unincorporated stretch of dry land in Beckham County that spread for acres. My dad took old Route 66 for the 170-mile drive. I sat wedged between Mark and Jody in the back seat, my feet planted on the hump in the floorboard. If my feet slipped to either side, the boys kicked me for trespassing.
The radio played faintly, but mostly I heard the wind rushing through my dad’s cracked window. It didn’t suck the cigarette smoke out of the car; it only made the heat worse. When the AM radio faded into static, my mother would sigh and stare out her window. “Tell us a story,” I begged. My brothers rolled their eyes, but they listened just the same. After a long sigh, my mother began.
Her voice, a flat tenor with little emotion, spoke about picking cotton. The cotton plant was cruel—the boll that held the white fluff was sharp and cut her fingers. She said her daddy would tie a big sack to her, and she picked from sunup to sundown, dragging it as it grew heavier with each step.
But she had sweet stories, too. When her daddy seeded the cotton in the spring, he would throw out watermelon seeds as well. Then in the fall, when they picked the cotton and were hot and thirsty, he would break a melon across his knee for a sweet treat. I thought the story was beautiful—until she murmured, almost to herself, “He did it so we couldn’t leave the field.”
I clung to every word, my ears straining to catch the smallest details of her life. The stories reminded me of The Waltons—except my dad was no John Walton. He smoked, and his temper came fast, even surprising himself. Sometimes I watched him and wondered if he might explode like one of those cartoon cigars in Looney Tunes. The worst moments were in the car, with his cigarettes and his rage. Smoke and anger filled the car like twin storms. Thankfully, I was a rare target. His anger usually landed on my mother or my older brother, Jody.
Once, on the way to the farm, we had a flat tire. Dad told Jody to change it, but when he couldn’t loosen the lug nuts, he cried. Mark, who could do everything, jumped in to help, which only made things worse. Dad didn’t spank. Instead, he gave a sharp thump on the forehead. The crack of it made me wince every time.
Our destination was the French farm instead of the Killingsworths’. None of us liked it there. But Dad—who was suddenly obsessed with fairness—insisted we spend time with his parents, too. He seemed restless the moment we arrived, pacing, fidgeting, searching for something to do. Finally, he decided to go fishing. “Who wants to come?” he asked. My brothers both shook their heads no, the red knots on their foreheads making the answer unnecessary. They quickly found reasons to stay behind. I was growing up, eager to prove I wasn’t a baby anymore. “Me! Me! I’ll go!” I shouted, jumping around the room. He looked at me for a long moment, then said, “Okay. Let’s go.”
We drove a short distance to a small lake surrounded by green grass. It was a sticky Oklahoma afternoon, the kind where your clothes cling to your skin. We unfolded our lawn chairs and set the tackle box between us. I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt.
My dad’s pride showed in the way he watched me bait the hook and cast the line. When I reeled in my first fish without losing it, he nodded. It was a perfect moment.
The sky began to change. Clouds thickened, and the air turned still. The wind—a constant companion in Oklahoma—fell silent. Even the cicadas stopped humming. Without warning, a small funnel dipped from the clouds. At first, it looked like a thin blue snake slithering through the air, but it widened and twisted into a classic tornado. When it touched the lake, the water spiraled upward, and the funnel turned from deep blue to bright white.
A white tornado.
It moved like something alive, deciding where to go. Then it exploded, releasing the water in a shimmering spray that fell over us. I jumped up and screamed with joy, spinning in circles. “Did you see that, Dad?” He cocked his head and said calmly, “Waterspout,” as if he had seen one a thousand times. I stood there dripping and breathless, watching the lake settle again. For a moment, it felt as if the world could lift and change without warning. I couldn’t wait to tell Mark. He was going to be so jealous.
On the way back, Dad let me ride in the truck bed. Each time we hit a bump, he checked the rearview mirror to make sure I was still there. I smiled back, proud and glowing. The wind followed us most of the way back, pressing against the truck as if it wanted to come along.
I spent much of my childhood watching—watching him, watching her, watching the world shift without warning, like weather over a lake.
That was not the only way the world changed. You learn things a little harder on a farm. The Frenches had cattle, and I was told that’s where our steaks and hamburgers came from. I’d seen Elmer Fudd hunt on Looney Tunes, but I hadn’t understood what “dressing” animals really meant.
The side of the barn with the sink was called the “Black Death Corner” by my brother Mark. The summer before, he’d asked if I wanted to see Dad “dress a deer.” I expected a deer in a dress. Instead, Bambi hung from a chain while its insides fell into a bucket. The smell of that place never left me.
As the truck rolled to a stop near the barn, my stomach twisted. The story of the white tornado sat on my tongue, ready to burst out—but I saw where we had stopped.
The Black Death side.
Dad set up a gut bucket and lifted a fish from our catch. “Watch closely,” he said. With practiced hands, he cleaned the fish, working quickly and without hesitation. Then he handed me the knife. My throat tightened. I was sure I was too young for this. But I didn’t dare refuse. I numbed myself and did as I was told. When I finished one, I held it out to him for inspection. “Good. Now do the rest.” My shoulders slumped. I had hoped one would be enough. Tears blurred my vision, but I kept going, leaving little bones behind.
As I worked on the fish, he fired up the grill, slathered it with lard, and seasoned the fillets with salt and pepper. The smell drifted through the yard while I kept going.
When I finished, we sat on overturned gut buckets and ate the crispy pieces straight from the grill. We nibbled with our front teeth, careful not to swallow the bones I had missed. It was the first meal I ever helped bring to the table.
I kept my story of the white tornado to myself. I could barely believe it had happened, so I didn’t make anyone else believe it either.
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