March 11, 1884 Marshall County Tornado 

From The Guntersville Democrat, March 13, 1884, pg. 1:

Bill Arp’s Letter.

The “Shycoon” Discussed – His Effort To Console, Etc.

I reckon the elements are satisfied and will let us alone for a season. We’ve got nothing to complain of at my house and much to be grateful for, nevertheless one of my props have been knocked from under, for I’ve been saying and thinking for seven years that these hills and mountains that surround us were like fortifications against storms and tempest and cyclones and simoons and tornadoes and all those sorts of things. I thought that the high peaks and ridges broke them to pieces when they come and we were in no danger, but the other day we could look out of our windows and see the raging balloon on its winding way tearing up things and paying no respect to houses or trees or man or beast. It lifted up the roof off of Nabor Munford’s nice dwelling like the shingles were feathers, and then took hold of his big two-story barn and twisted it all to pieces and then dropped the fragments about on nine mules and two horses and a carriage and all sorts of machines, and nine negroes to boot that were inside the building. No, those colored men were not in. They saw the cyclone fooling round the dwelling house and they run out of the barn just as the suburbs of the monster got there.

             There are a hundred families who have lost treasures that money could not replace – treasures of the heart and home that will never return. What a terrible death. Verily these cyclones seem like things of life, or instruments of vengeance in the hands of the gods we read about in old mythology. All that ancient romance has recorded of Ajax and Hercules and Jupiter, or all that the Arabian Knights tell us of the genie does not surpass the power and grandeur and desolation of the modern cyclone. It humbles us more than prayers or preaching. It takes us unawares. It is the constant dread of the timid and defenseless, and now it takes all my philosophy to keep my household calm and serene. “There is the basement,” I said, “and we could all run downstairs and be beneath the track of the cyclone, for it never was known to attack a basement that was below the ground, nor a cellar, nor a well.” Mrs. Arp laid down her knitting and said, “you don’t suppose for a moment that anybody in their right mind would go down in that basement during a cyclone and have all the timbers of the old house crash in on them?” “Why, my dear,” said I, “the timbers of this house are old fashioned and strong. Do you know that these sills are 14 inches square and all framed and draw-pinned.”

             “So much the worse,” said she; “the heavier the timber the heavier it would fall on us. If the house was light it might blow clean away and leave us unharmed, but these big sills you tell about would just be lifted up a little and dropped back in the basement. No, I’m not going down in the basement.”

             “Well then there is the flower-pit,” said I. “That is a good place. There are no timbers over that.”

             “But how are we going to get to the flower-pit,” said the girls. “The cyclone comes before anybody knows it, and while we are running to the flower-pit it catches us and carries us off.”

             “Not only that,” said Mrs. Arp, “but the trees are all about and they would be pulled up by the roots and crush down on the flower-pit and even the sash frames and the glass could kill us, and then there is always hail with the cyclone and that would beat us all to pieces – no, I’m not going in the flower-pit.”

             “All right,” said I. “We will stay right here in the family room and see it out. I don’t think it will do anything but take the roof off.”

             “Why it tore Mr. Munford’s big strong barn all to pieces and killed his mules,” said she. “It wouldn’t mind this house at all.”

             “Then where are you all going?” said I, and there was silence for a season. Finally Mrs. Arp said she wanted to move somewhere where there were no storms or cyclones. “There is no such place,” said I, “this side of heaven.”

             Last night my women folks stopped up at Nabor Freeman’s to tea and about ten o’clock he came down alone and said he wanted somebody to go up after my folks.

             “Why didn’t they come down with you?” said I. “Afraid,” said he. “Afraid of what?” said I. “Cyclone,” said he. I was about to express my indignation, when he said that they had all been talking about spirits and ghosts and his wife didn’t want to be left alone and so he left my folks up there while he came down. It does look like spirits and magnetism and cyclones are about to take this country and a man don’t hardly know whether it is worthwhile to plant a crop or not, but I reckon we will plant. We have been sowing oats all the week as hard as we can and are still living in hope that sunshine and seasons will continue and the earth give its increase and this year be a better one than the last.

             So mote it be.                                                            Bill Arp.