Irv Oslin | Columnist
JUNE 14, 2022, 5:30 A.M. — Night clung stubbornly to the splintered tree trunks and tangled limbs. Daylight crept slowly across the fallen wires and rain-drenched debris on the ground as if reluctant to reveal the details of what had happened the night before.
I needed a headlamp to penetrate shadows cast by broken pine boughs so I could find the best places along the trunk — mindful that I had just one chainsaw battery. I had to make each cut count if I was to clear the massive pine off the driveway.
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That done, my sense of accomplishment was short-lived. Fallen trees, limbs and wires blocked Bromfield and Hastings East roads for a mile or more. It would be nearly 12 hours before road crews and neighbors cleared enough of a path to reach the main road and civilization. An eerily subdued civilization.
More than a week later, that feeling of numbness remained. The roads were open, power and internet connections restored. Yet stark reminders persisted — tree trunk forests devoid of canopies, gnarled limbs dangling or heaped on the ground, earth scarred by heavy equipment.
When time allowed, I chain sawed my way from mess to mess, surveying the damage, trying to decide what to clear next. And what could wait.
After lines of communications reopened, I was able to compare notes with others, including Larry Smith. He and his wife Elaine own prairies and woodlands in one of the hardest-hit areas — a six-mile corridor between Butler and Perrysville where the worst of the tornadoes ran roughshod across the landscape.
For more than a decade, Larry and Elaine have labored to restore these areas to their natural splendor. They’ve established awe-inspiring showcases…