Every April 11 reminds me why I am grateful to be alive. It was sixty years ago, on April 11, 1965, when disaster struck. The day was a balmy Palm Sunday in Indiana. My mother was five months pregnant with me. Even though it was stormy, it was evening, and they were getting ready to go to church.
My grandparents lived about five miles southwest of my parents. My Uncle Preston was with them. As they were chatting, they suddenly felt things go deathly quiet. Uncle Preston rushed out to the mailbox. To the northwest, he saw the tornado. He ran back in and told everyone to get in the coal bin. He rushed to the phone to call my dad.