The Great Depression took enough. Then came the great destruction. It was March 21, 1932. I remember the day the town of Beaverdale vanished from the map. One of the few today who would.
I was sitting on my front porch, tucked against the wall to avoid the driving rain, a warm cup of coffee nestled in my hands as I watched the gray sky swallow the mountain view. The first day of spring had come and gone, but the weather hadn’t been kind. Neither had the year before.
There was a certain hope that came with the first day of spring. Today, that hope was gone. Hours later, I emerged from under the floor of my cabin to find the remnants of my home a distant memory. It wasn’t the only thing. An F4, more than a mile wide in places, had taken the town with it. 15 dead. Countless others injured.
Beaverdale lives on in name only, passed down through generations, but it is no longer its own town. No post office. No forwarding address. Only a gas station on a rural highway still boasts the name of a community that made its mark, only to lose everything.
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