Spliced in between our corona pandemic, we still suffer the other rigors of life in Oklahoma. Such as tornadoes. Gives us something else to think about so, for whatever reasons, my thoughts stray to April 9, 1947. The granddaddy of tornadoes paid an unwelcome visit to Woodward, Oklahoma. That night I will never forget. Ever.

What a night it was. I was 12 years old — selling popcorn at the Main Theatre in Stonewall. Myrtle Morris, the local telephone operator rang the little “pencil phone” in the ticket office with the warning. In 1947 there was no TV and not much good radio service concerning severe weather, but we had Myrtle. And it was her job to sound alerts about things such as tornadoes. On that Wednesday night, a good crowd was gathered in the movie — a normal situation across the Sooner State in those ancient times. That was why she called us. Everybody went to the movies — every night.

The main feature had started. A good size crowd was inside but my dad, nor anyone else knew exactly what to do with Myrtle’s call. And where was this Woodward place, anyway? Radio reports from the Texas Panhandle (via KADA Radio in Ada) had reported that the little town of Glazier, Texas had blown away. But where was Glazier? Dad did not know, but no threat to Stonewall.

The deadly tornado next destroyed Higgins, Texas. Wiped out its Main Street, killed 46 citizens and gravely injured 232 more. But the big F-5 whirlwind was just getting started. It marched steadily on this foggy Wednesday evening to the northeast. No warning at all for Woodward, Oklahoma where another movie crowd was crammed inside another theater, complacently enjoying their movie. Just like we were in Stonewall. Just more innocent fodder for this killer wind.

The phone switchboard in Higgins was blown away, but word got on the wires anyway and KADA broadcast word of the tornado coming into Woodward — wherever that was. In no time people in Stonewall ran into the movie screaming out family names. The Main Theatre was mostly emptied of customers. Dad, to no avail, had on the PA that there was not any storm for us. The radio said over a thousand people were dead in Woodward. I heard the same sort of panic thing was taking place at the McSwain in Ada. Meanwhile, in Stonewall, we continued in full panic. Also, the movie continued.

Out in Woodward all hell had broken loose. In just moments it had destroyed 100 city blocks! The big movie house and downtown were flattened, and scores were trapped. The city power plant supplying power to the city was obliterated. Its gigantic boilers and engines as destroyed as well as the system it had powered. Killing 107 in Woodward that ugly night, it is known to have injured about 1,000 more. Doing nearly $1 billion dollars in damage (in 1947 dollars) the awful storm continued northeast past Alva and on into Kansas before quitting. But no place like Woodward. Tattered churches opened their buildings and basements to the overflowing and irreparably damaged Woodward Hospital.

The next day brought snow and a cold miserable wind. Help was slow to arrive. Families were scattered. Some were just ‘blown away — forever. For one little 4-year girl asleep in the basement of the local hospital, two men walked in and carried her out. She was never seen again. Her mom and a sister were dead. The clock had run out. The little 4-year old. Gone. She vanished forever one night in 1947.

Meanwhile, I am still a lock-in at my home for the duration of this ongoing Pandemic. So, let me hear from you. I enjoy hearing from my readers and like you I look to the time we can all be out and about once more.

Wayne Bullard, DPh cwaynebullard@gmail.com