The Beauty of NatureA Time to Remember
Mother Nature? I Think Not
By Ronnie Powell
I have stood in awe and occasionally fearfully at times during my life watching a summer storm rise above the horizon, hearing thunder rumbling from within, observing lightening dancing from the earth to the massive formation. They are spectacular occurrences often destructive laying waste to everything that stands in their path. It is during theses times, whether it be in spring, summer, autumn or winter I am reminded that man’s importance on earth is of no more concern to nature than leaves tumbling in the wind.
Natural calamities are often proclaimed to be Mother Nature’s doing or God’s wrath. I strongly disagree. Nature’s forces are indeed very real, but are only mindless aspects of a never ending cycle of a minute aspect of the universe, put into motion by a force greater than we can imagine. Natural calamities indeed posses phenomenal powers that should not be faulted with God’s natural order of things or a Mother.
I cannot imagine nor comprehend God pointing at a bunch of poor souls to be destroyed. It was apparently said by two individuals of whom I will not name that Haiti was punished by God with a devastating earthquake. Earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes to name a few of the devastating forces of Earth are not weapons of God, but merely natural forces set in motion by our own plant’s conflict. Churches of every faith, without exception and their people have been destroyed, or maimed by storms of every variety. God fearing people of faith and understanding know without a doubt that nature is an Earth force, unmindful and unforgiving of its own.
Mother Nature, is of course a convenient or colorful way of addressing the weather, but to use the word Mother is an insult to that cherished spirit that is bestowed to mothers of every species of life.. It seems to me that journalist could and would use another term, instead of Mother, that precious giver of mortal life. With few exceptions, a mother will unhesitatingly give of her own life to protect her young. A Mother’s love cannot be measured for it is eternal. With few exceptions a Mother will provide safety, warmth and food for her offspring’s
Several years ago while working on a farm in Texas, another young man and I were checking a field of maze that would soon be ready for cultivation. A storm rose unexpectedly, or so it seemed to me, a huge wall of clouds bristling with lightening and wind. We left the pickup truck we had driven there and made for a cluster of out buildings to seek shelter. We did not make it and over the howling wind I was told to lie down as flat as I could. Sand and burs stung my face with such force it felt as if I was being skinned alive. I clung to whatever vegetation was at hand, feeling my body rise and fall against the ground. Tumble weeds ran wild in the wind. Muddy rain drenched us unmercifully and then it was over.
My coworker a native Texan, a tall lanky fellow stood up gazing about and said nonchalantly. “I reckon we’ll have to walk back.”
I too stood up, slapping my muddied Stetson across a leg. Most of the buildings were gone or lying in ruins. The pickup truck lay on its side, caked in mud.
When first employed with the Department of Conservation at the Bennett Spring trout hatchery I was assigned the morning shift from 12:00 to 8:00 a.m., and consisted of watching the hatchery complex, keeping the screens clean for the proper amount of water flow into the pools. Storms, floods and autumn leaves were the worst to contend with. Extreme conditions were rare, but kept me busy trying keep ahead of leaf buildup on the screens. Lightening was the immediate danger, for it was not uncommon to receive a direct hit in the pool areas during a storm.
One morning in the autumn of 1969, a particular menacing thunderstorm arrived with much lightening and torrential rain. Working as fast as I could from pool to pool, cleaning them and then retreating inside the hatchery building until forced outside again. Soon, however, the storm intensified to the point of no retreat and drenched to the skin, flinching with each flash of lightening I fought to keep the screens clean.
Hurrying along a pool directly below the hatchery building, lightening struck a transformer pole across the pool knocking me down. I quickly got to my feet resuming the frantic cleaning, but noticed numbness in my left arm.
The storm finally abated and I was able to take a break, but to my astonishment the left arm from the elbow down had swollen grotesquely. By the end of the shift the arm had increased in size and Mister Holland the manger occupied me to the emergency room in Lebanon, where a large amount of fluid was drawn from the elbow with no apparent permanent damage to the limb.
Tornadoes undoubtedly rank as the most destructive and treacherous of all landlocked storms. One can appear unexpectedly hidden in the smallest of a thunderstorm, its thread like tentacle dropping from an innocent looking cloud into bright sunlight.
In the summer of 1987, while helping two friends sat up an eighty by forty foot tent for Prairie days I sat drinking a cup of coffee surveying our progress. One of the fellows stood at the edge of the tent smoking a cigarette. A small cloud had appeared from the south casting blotches of shadows across Fifteen Mile Prairie.
The fellow standing at the edge of the tent causally remarked. “That’s a strange looking cloud dipping to the ground.”
I looked up astounded at what I saw; a tornado was on the ground, no more than a couple of hundred yards away. “Let’s get of here,” I shouted.
Two of us ran from the tent toward the old Eberhart Cabin that set in the historical park. The fellow smoking the cigarette did not and took cover under a stage sitting in the tent. Huge pieces of ice, (hail) fell around us followed by a loud roar and the tent swelled upward, large support timbers broke like toothpicks. The tent torn from its mooring was ripped apart, ascending high into the sky into ragged remnants. Only the stage stood appearing intact with broken poles littering the ground.
Only seconds had passed since the hit and my friend I crouched next to the cabin staring at the destruction. Most of the tent lay in a heap several yards away, pieces of it hung from a barbed wire fence. We found the other fellow under the stage, unharmed.
If nature is to be compared to a mother it should be in the beauty of rebirth in spring and abundance of growth prevalent in summer or a beautiful snow covered landscape. Adios
(An added note)
John and I rode the Niangua River together many times beneath a summer sky and sharing its meandering course past tall bluffs and deep blue eddies. Goodbye John.
Mother Nature? I Think Not
By Ronnie Powell
I have stood in awe and occasionally fearfully at times during my life watching a summer storm rise above the horizon, hearing thunder rumbling from within, observing lightening dancing from the earth to the massive formation. They are spectacular occurrences often destructive laying waste to everything that stands in their path. It is during theses times, whether it be in spring, summer, autumn or winter I am reminded that man’s importance on earth is of no more concern to nature than leaves tumbling in the wind.
Natural calamities are often proclaimed to be Mother Nature’s doing or God’s wrath. I strongly disagree. Nature’s forces are indeed very real, but are only mindless aspects of a never ending cycle of a minute aspect of the universe, put into motion by a force greater than we can imagine. Natural calamities indeed posses phenomenal powers that should not be faulted with God’s natural order of things or a Mother.
I cannot imagine nor comprehend God pointing at a bunch of poor souls to be destroyed. It was apparently said by two individuals of whom I will not name that Haiti was punished by God with a devastating earthquake. Earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes to name a few of the devastating forces of Earth are not weapons of God, but merely natural forces set in motion by our own plant’s conflict. Churches of every faith, without exception and their people have been destroyed, or maimed by storms of every variety. God fearing people of faith and understanding know without a doubt that nature is an Earth force, unmindful and unforgiving of its own.
Mother Nature, is of course a convenient or colorful way of addressing the weather, but to use the word Mother is an insult to that cherished spirit that is bestowed to mothers of every species of life.. It seems to me that journalist could and would use another term, instead of Mother, that precious giver of mortal life. With few exceptions, a mother will unhesitatingly give of her own life to protect her young. A Mother’s love cannot be measured for it is eternal. With few exceptions a Mother will provide safety, warmth and food for her offspring’s
Several years ago while working on a farm in Texas, another young man and I were checking a field of maze that would soon be ready for cultivation. A storm rose unexpectedly, or so it seemed to me, a huge wall of clouds bristling with lightening and wind. We left the pickup truck we had driven there and made for a cluster of out buildings to seek shelter. We did not make it and over the howling wind I was told to lie down as flat as I could. Sand and burs stung my face with such force it felt as if I was being skinned alive. I clung to whatever vegetation was at hand, feeling my body rise and fall against the ground. Tumble weeds ran wild in the wind. Muddy rain drenched us unmercifully and then it was over.
My coworker a native Texan, a tall lanky fellow stood up gazing about and said nonchalantly. “I reckon we’ll have to walk back.”
I too stood up, slapping my muddied Stetson across a leg. Most of the buildings were gone or lying in ruins. The pickup truck lay on its side, caked in mud.
When first employed with the Department of Conservation at the Bennett Spring trout hatchery I was assigned the morning shift from 12:00 to 8:00 a.m., and consisted of watching the hatchery complex, keeping the screens clean for the proper amount of water flow into the pools. Storms, floods and autumn leaves were the worst to contend with. Extreme conditions were rare, but kept me busy trying keep ahead of leaf buildup on the screens. Lightening was the immediate danger, for it was not uncommon to receive a direct hit in the pool areas during a storm.
One morning in the autumn of 1969, a particular menacing thunderstorm arrived with much lightening and torrential rain. Working as fast as I could from pool to pool, cleaning them and then retreating inside the hatchery building until forced outside again. Soon, however, the storm intensified to the point of no retreat and drenched to the skin, flinching with each flash of lightening I fought to keep the screens clean.
Hurrying along a pool directly below the hatchery building, lightening struck a transformer pole across the pool knocking me down. I quickly got to my feet resuming the frantic cleaning, but noticed numbness in my left arm.
The storm finally abated and I was able to take a break, but to my astonishment the left arm from the elbow down had swollen grotesquely. By the end of the shift the arm had increased in size and Mister Holland the manger occupied me to the emergency room in Lebanon, where a large amount of fluid was drawn from the elbow with no apparent permanent damage to the limb.
Tornadoes undoubtedly rank as the most destructive and treacherous of all landlocked storms. One can appear unexpectedly hidden in the smallest of a thunderstorm, its thread like tentacle dropping from an innocent looking cloud into bright sunlight.
In the summer of 1987, while helping two friends sat up an eighty by forty foot tent for Prairie days I sat drinking a cup of coffee surveying our progress. One of the fellows stood at the edge of the tent smoking a cigarette. A small cloud had appeared from the south casting blotches of shadows across Fifteen Mile Prairie.
The fellow standing at the edge of the tent causally remarked. “That’s a strange looking cloud dipping to the ground.”
I looked up astounded at what I saw; a tornado was on the ground, no more than a couple of hundred yards away. “Let’s get of here,” I shouted.
Two of us ran from the tent toward the old Eberhart Cabin that set in the historical park. The fellow smoking the cigarette did not and took cover under a stage sitting in the tent. Huge pieces of ice, (hail) fell around us followed by a loud roar and the tent swelled upward, large support timbers broke like toothpicks. The tent torn from its mooring was ripped apart, ascending high into the sky into ragged remnants. Only the stage stood appearing intact with broken poles littering the ground.
Only seconds had passed since the hit and my friend I crouched next to the cabin staring at the destruction. Most of the tent lay in a heap several yards away, pieces of it hung from a barbed wire fence. We found the other fellow under the stage, unharmed.
If nature is to be compared to a mother it should be in the beauty of rebirth in spring and abundance of growth prevalent in summer or a beautiful snow covered landscape. Adios
(An added note)
John and I rode the Niangua River together many times beneath a summer sky and sharing its meandering course past tall bluffs and deep blue eddies. Goodbye John.
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