Author Tom Wolfe once said, “You can’t go home again.”
That’s because going back to your hometown is tough. You get pulled between visiting with family and old friends. You recognize people, but can’t put names with faces. But going back when your hometown is in crisis is terrible – and yet, wonderful.
The horror of the explosion in West was reported all over the media. It seems that so many people in journalism know I am from West. They sent messages. They asked me to connect them with people in West. They sent me notes. “No, it’s not as bad as a war scene. … I’ve been to war.” Or “Hey, the downtown is fine. But there are people really hurting here.”
That’s the kind of message that made me go “home.” That – and the need to help in some way.
Because, no matter where you go, no matter how far away you live, you need to go to your hometown when a crisis hits.
Because people in small towns take care of each other.
And so it was that I went to West on Sunday, bringing school supplies and helping my sister, Sandra Kettler, called “the high-strung school secretary in the vortex of activity” by National Public Radio reporter John Burnett, with whatever she needed.
I met people as we put up bulletin boards in West Elementary. I talked to old friends. I spent time with a cousin, who I used to think of as that “little kid”. The elementary school was abuzz, as volunteers, employees, teachers and friends pitched in to make sure that the school was welcoming to those children who will likely be suffering trauma from the April 17 West fertilizer plant explosion.
The experience of coming together with old – and new – friends was a welcome one. While never venturing into the five-block explosion radius, I talked with residents and volunteers about their experiences.
Local residents at once were disgusted with things – and happy to be alive. They talked about the crazy things journalists would ask, such as “Why were they storing so much fertilizer there?” When someone responded, “Well, it’s April,” the “city-slickers” still didn’t understand that spring is planting season. Oh, well.
On the other hand, residents also recognized that only because the media came into town did the story get out and the much-needed help flow in. At the bakery, locals showed off their new clothes they got at the donation center, while talking about the one-room house they were living in … all the while thinking about how they were going to get back to their own home.
People talked about the wonderful feeling they got when, on Sunday, they attended church together and laughed as Mayor Tommy Muska talked about Zhima’s chickens.
Yes, they laughed. Because they needed the laughter, even as they cried. Muska, who lost his own home, might have gotten frustrated as he talked to the media, explaining why people couldn’t go to their homes and why he wasn’t releasing names of the deceased. He brought residents together with laughter on Sunday, so they could pray, hug each other, and be glad that they were alive. He wagged a finger at the bishop as he said, “God is testing me.”
Everyone in town is being tested at this point – by circumstances, by volunteers, by the media, by the huge amount of work ahead.
On Sunday evening, you could see a wide range of volunteers – from Billy Graham’s Rapid Response teams to the young people who are part of the largest Islamic relief effort, the Disaster Assistance Response Team at a local restaurant. Everyone was affected and everyone was pitching in to do what they could.
It was a wonderful sight to see.
As a town comes together, to put itself back together, a few more people will be added to the circle. Because that’s what a small community is all about – a close knit place that stretches to include family long moved away – and new friends freshly brought into the mix.
