The Miracle of Coming Home Part One

Our house after the tornado hit.

Our home restored.

We are home. And it is a miracle. No really. It IS a miracle. On March 2 our home was nearly destroyed by the tornado that raced from Piner Kentucky to Moscow Ohio where we live. The entire south wall was ripped from the second floor to the ground. The house was originally built in 1890 and has been added to and built upon ever since. The house sits on the river bank of the Ohio River with a spectacular view of  the river from almost every room. It is the house we always dreamed of owning and the tornado ripped up one side and down the other. But a structural engineer brought in by our insurance company deemed the house structurally sound. We had good insurance and it was a no brainer for us to restore the house. And that's what we did. We hired a great general contractor who listened to all our desires and two months ago we came home. We came home to a practically brand new old house. New siding, new windows, new roof, all the broken walls repaired, new electric wiring, new fence. It truly is a miracle.

Yes. It was a beautiful place...

Our home before the tornado.

'It was a beautiful place' my son, Andrew, was quoted on the front page of the Cincinnati Enquirer today. And it was. Our home in Moscow was THE home. The dream house. A house to share with friends and family. Where we were going to grow old together.

Now we're tornado victims.

The south wall was sheared by the tornado.

Our backyard before the tornado.

Don't get me wrong. I am not complaining. I am grateful my husband and two dogs walked away from our destroyed home relatively unharmed. Jeff had a concussion but he's a little loony in the head anyway. I was out shopping so our car wasn't sucked into the vortex. We have a comfortable place to live while we drudge through the red tape of insurance policies, local bureaucracy, flood plain rules and contractors licking their lips for our insurance money.

Today marks one month since a tornado ripped through our quaint little village of Moscow.  We lost a friend and neighbor, Carol Forste. We lost many homes. Some lost personal possessions that can never be replaced. The beautiful old trees can be replanted but will never reach their 100-year-old glory in my lifetime. Some of our neighbors will not be back...not because they don't want to come back, but because they don't have the means to rebuild.

Our backyard after the tornado. That's our neighbor's couch.

We bought our house in 1999, two years after the 1997 flood nearly destroyed Moscow. The core of our house was built in the late 1800s and had withstood many floods before. And ironically it was the core of the house that withstood the tornado. But it wasn't just the charm and location of the house that attracted us. It was the spirit of the people that lived there.

In the summer of 1999, before we bought the house, we visited the house and the village dozens of times. We were moving from suburbia and Moscow isn't exactly in a metropolitan area. It would be a big change for us and our two sons.

So on July 4, 1999 we decided to visit the local pub to meet some of the local residents. We were curious why people would continue to live in an area that had been flooded over and over again.

Rivers Edge Pub was your typical local bar. Pool table in the back, a couple of tables and chairs and a long bar stretching half the length of the room. Jean Scott was behind the bar serving up cold beer. Janet Gragg, who managed the bar, and Jackie Wells were sitting at the end of the bar chatting and smoking cigarettes. We walked in and immediately felt welcomed.

We had a couple beers and chatted with the Ladies of the Village (as I came to call them over the years.) They were delighted we were considering moving into the village. Yes, they had been here when the '97 flood hit. Jackie, who had lived in Moscow all her life, even remembered floods before that.

They stayed after the flood because it's home. It's a place where everybody knows your name. Where people walk their dogs and stop to chat with their neighbors on the front porch. And, much to our delight that day, a place that stages an All-American Fourth of July parade and a pretty awesome fireworks show. We were hooked.

The Ladies of the Village are all gone now, passed away. And the pub has been closed for years. But new people have come and life-long residents have stayed. And if we can restore our home to its previous glory, we will be back. But it won't just be the kick-ass view of the river from my bedroom window, or the whish, whish of the waves lapping on the river bank, or the brilliant sparkle of the afternoon sun on the water that brings me back. It will be the spirit of the people.