258. Monson: Keep Homestead Museum

It was as horrible as advertised.

I was at home in Weymouth the night the tornadoes struck. There is no stronger feeling of powerlessness than sitting in front of the TV listening to the broadcaster say, "ETA for Weymouth, 16 minutes." It's the randomness, like that of a lightning strike, that instills the fear. It might only take one life, but chances are just as good as the next person's that it would be mine. The line used to be "Smoke 'em if you got 'em." Now it's just a silent resignation to fate.

I stopped at the Keep Homestead Museum and could see the path of the tornado that tore through the town. It was unnerving, tear-jerking. The trees had fallen in the path, a perfect cut through the woods. Two black vultures, as if wishing to add a sense of the macabre to the scene, flew up and over the hill as I took it all in.

I headed onto the trails behind the museum and saw, at first, what I thought was the extent of the damage. I could discern the tornado's path, off to my right. But then, the trail turned, and headed into that area. For the next forty minutes or so, I walked in the path.

The fact that the trail was open at all was utterly remarkable. But it was passable from end to end. One section, known for its Christmas ferns, won't have ferns in a few years. An entire section of forest had been laid bare, and without shade, the ferns probably don't stand a chance. A ten-year study of the plant life of this particular plot would be fascinating - how often do Massachusetts scientists get to study the aftereffects of a tornado in their own backyard? The same goes for the birds. Without their trees, do they return? Piles of chainsawed debris reached well above my head. Pits created by the uprooting of massive trees had filled with water during the morning, making for hundreds of small pools on the hill.

All was not lost, of course, as goldfinches, pewees and woodpeckers flew through the area, still finding food. Life amidst all the death. 

I'd never felt so sad while walking in nature, and never pulled for a community I didn't know as much as I pulled for Monson that day.