“Looks like rain up ahead,” said my brother Rodger as we left Canton, IL. headed west on the Canton/Cuba blacktop. With a few taps on her phone Lori checked the weather channel, “There are wide bands of thunderstorms headed our way.” Within seconds we were engulfed in a blinding downpour of rain interspersed with pea-sized hail. The car was barraged, the noise overwhelming, as if being shot at with a machine-gun. Instantly we were in complete whiteout conditions - adrenaline shot through my system, my first reaction, check the rear-view mirror, pull over, we’re going to get hit from the rear! I was not driving. We went from 60 miles per hour to almost a complete stop right in the middle of the road . . .
This all began rather innocently early on a Sunday morning while visiting my folks in Cuba, IL. That morning, sitting on the porch, the weather had become unseasonably warm, a blustering wind, bending the trees under its force. Overhead the sky was filled with a mixture of dark, white, and streaked clouds that rolled by at a blistering pace. It was an amazing site to sit and watch while drinking a cup of coffee on the porch.
I texted my brothers, “You guys in the woods? Too windy this morning! Come on over for a cup of coffee.” It was still early, about 6:23 a.m.
During Deer Season the weekends in Cuba, in my family anyway, are spent in a deer stand. Just send a text (you in the woods?) anytime after 5 a.m. on the weekend and the reply will be (yep nothing yet). You can always start a conversation simply by asking, “Have you gotten’ a deer this season?” That’s the ice-breaker.
“I saw a big buck just yesterday but couldn’t get a shot.” My brothers are either in the woods, talking about going to the woods, or getting things together to go to the woods.
Rodger: “This morning I woke up about 4:30, looked out the window, saw a big bright moon and dark clouds rolling past, then went back to bed.”
They call in sleepin’-in (until 6:30). It was about 8:00 o’clock when Rodger and Julie rolled into Mom’s yard that morning.
“What do you want, eggs for breakfast,” Mom asked. Mom’s house is much like a short-order cafe. Step in the front door and it’s time to eat.
This morning’s conversation starter, “Scott killed a deer about dusk yesterday. When are we going to the woods?” asked Julie.
Rodgers’ response, “Your bows’ at home, I’ll get it so you can shoot a few arrows and we’ll adjust the sights.”
“Mom, where is my bow?” I asked. She made a beeline to the closet and began throwing out pillows, blankets, coats, and a pile of paraphernalia akin to a squirrel clearing its den. We strolled to the back-yard to shoot a few practice arrows. Amazingly, I was still able to hit the archery target from about thirty yards, even with slightly bent arrows.
Julie’s compact bow launched arrows like cross-bow shooting an oversized dart. They streaked silently through the air and hit the target with a thuu-waap. She would take a couple of shots, Rodger would make few adjustments, then shoot a few more. It didn't take long before she hit the target dead center. For those who have never handled or even seen a compound bow, it’s a silent assault rifle. Curved arms with a complex series of strings and pulleys, a stabilizer, fiber-optic illuminated pinpoint sights, string silencers, and a mechanical release much like the trigger on a gun. In complete contrast, I’m shooting a traditional wooden recurve bow with a simple arrow rest, a finger-glove and instinct for sights.
“What’s the plan for today?” asked Lori.
“We’re going to Farm King to do a little Christmas shopping, you guys want to go?”
“Sure, let’s go.”
So, we take the 30 minute drive to Canton. We roll into the Farm King parking lot and coincidentally pull alongside Scott’s truck. The conversation starter, “Here’s the deer Scott killed yesterday, can you believe the check-in station doesn’t open until 3:30 (on a Sunday) during deer season!” The check-in station is the meat processing plant where hunters bring their tagged deer for a population count and processing the meat.
As we exited Farm King the skies were becoming ominous. Stacked, puffy, darkening clouds. Not something we see in California. I was compelled to take a few photo’s. Lori checked the weather channel on her iPhone, “There are wide bands of severe thunderstorms headed our way.” We piled into the car and calmly headed for home.
. . . The skies became pitch black, we were hit with a torrential rain, you could not see the white line on the pavement, our car slowed to a crawl. Working our way to the right side of the road, we helplessly stared out the window in complete amazement, not knowing we were on the fringe of a series of tornadoes that hit Central Illinois. Less than 40 miles from our location the town of Washington, IL. was being ravaged by a (EF4) tornado. Within minutes the driving rain subsided, the dark cloud passed and we continued home. A little shook-up but nothing eventful.
When we entered the house my nephew, Evan, recently arrived for lunch, had just left work from Washington, IL., unknowingly having escaped a deadly tornado. His conversation starter, “Can you believe this wind? Were you guys caught in that pouring rain? It’s my only day off - I’m headed to Ellisville to deer hunt.”
“Not till this wind dies down and the skies clear, a tornado hit Washington,” said Dad.
Not to be deterred by weather, by 2:00 o’clock that afternoon, as the Weather Channel reported multiple tornado sightings throughout the state my family; Rodger, Julie, my brother Ronnie, and Evan were all in the woods, covered in camouflage - deer hunting.
The motto around our house, reminiscent of the Postal Service, to paraphrase the plaque on the James Farley Post Office in New York. Neither snow nor rain nor tornados nor heat nor gloom of night stays these deer hunters from the swift completion of their appointed deer tags.
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