“I would hurry to my place of shelter, far from the tempest and storm.”  Psalm 55:8”

Does anyone remember the heyday of the storm pit?  Yes, in “tornado alley” (a swath stretching from Oklahoma to Georgia) the storm pit was a common sight, especially between the mid-1930’s and the mid-1960’s.  Around here they were normally dug into the side of a small hill, usually consisting of about six steps descending down into a 8′ x 8′ cinderblock-walled room.  Around the edge of the room were wooden benches, or sometimes a collection of ladder back chairs with cane-woven seats.    All storm pits had plenty of candles, matches, and perhaps a kerosene lamp.  Moms and Dads everywhere kept their eyes to the sky during stormy seasons of the year–  storm pits  needed to be used, and used often.

In March of 1932, a deadly tornado outbreak terrorized the deep South, killing almost 300 people, and injuring over a thousand in Alabama alone.  My father and my mother always remembered the night a terrible tornado ripped across Clay County.  They both said the sky to the north of Ashland looked like a fireball.  My dad, then a nine-year old boy, visited the devastated areas the day after the disaster.  He said the awful images of death and destruction were forever burned into his memory. His family lost several friends and loved ones in the 1932 tornado outbreak.

The fear of that happening again caused almost everyone in Alabama to find a way to build a storm pit.  I was born in the 1950’s and BOTH of my grandparents had well-equipped storm pits, ready at all times for another tornado outbreak.  Granddaddy and Grandma Nichols had one in middle of the backyard, no less than 30 feet from their house.  It had a cement top and a big wooden door covered by a sheet of tin resting at a 45 degree angle over the steps.  I remember the earthen mound as a perfect setting to play king of the hill, but was an awful place to have to mow with a push mower.  Mama Sims, my dad’s mom, had a deluxe model. It was dug into a large embankment so there was no need for steps– just a wooden door for an easy entrance.  And just in case we couldn’t make it quickly to one of my grandparents, the Kennedy’s, our neighbors across the street had a deluxe model as well.  When it came to storm pits, we were covered.

I can hear Mama Sims on the other end of a phone call (at any hour of the day or night),  “Ya’ll better hurry on up to the storm pit.  It looks like it’s coming up a really bad cloud.”   The phrase “…coming up a bad cloud” struck terror into the minds of children everywhere.  The fear was not because there was a dangerous storm approaching, but because climbing into a dark, musty storm pit was worse than death by tornado!  Whoa, the storm pit was for playing ON TOP OF, not for actually entering!  In the imagination of a little kid, it wasn’t a storm pit, it was a snake pit; a den of spiders; a creepy hiding place for all manner of slimy critters and even human criminals. (Every kid at school knew someone, who knew someone, who said their cousin’s best friend had seen an escaped convict secretly going in and out of their storm pit!)  It was worse than a Catholic purgatory and more dangerous than an abandoned mine.  We pleaded, “Leave me out in the storm; tie me to the chimney; strap me onto the roof of the house– just don’t make me go into the storm pit!” 

I can only remember ONE time that there was actually a tornado anywhere near one of the storm pits.  Still, our family collectively spent an untold number of fearful hours in one of those creepy candle-lit holes in the ground.  It was always because someone was heard saying, “I think it’s coming up a cloud.”   One thing I know for sure is that Mama Sims took clouds seriously, because we got an invitation to a cozy underground family reunion every time a “bad cloud” was on the horizon.  Often we would have to spend most of the night inside our scary cinderblock tomb, just waiting on Armageddon to happen above ground.

Three of my thirteen Sims cousins lived in Florida.  Of course, they didn’t have storm pits in Florida– too flat, too sandy, and prone to flooding during a hurricane.  Whenever they came to Alabama to visit, there was always the threat from the local cousins (the Smith boys of course) to lock them in the storm pit with the deadly snakes and spiders.  They were more frightened of Mama Sims’ storm pit than we were, and they never had to actually spend one night in the dreaded dirt dungeon!  (Susan, you’re STILL terrified when you think about it.  Admit it.)

Thankfully, we never had to emerge from a storm pit into a post-apocalyptic world.  The storm pits in my life never saved one person’s life.  Neither did we lose a life to a snake bite, a spider bite, or to an escaped convict’s blade.  Life after a trip to the storm pit looked exactly as life looked before entering it.

Still, I thank God for storm pits.  They are like policemen, firemen, and insurance– reminders that we’re more blessed when we don’t need them– but really thankful they’re there.

“Devote yourselves to prayer, being watchful and thankful.”  Colossians 4:2