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Show Twisters . . . 58 LATER ON What we saw when we got to Smiley's place was really incredible. "A sight for sore eyes," my grandma would say. Smiley's big old cottonwoods were still in leaf. Beyond the trees, her white frame house loomed in front of us same as always, only now it was topless. Amazingly, the walls were still standing foursquare! The front porch jutted out like the chin of a stubborn old-timer who'd simply refused to budge. For a minute we just stared. "Son of a gun!" Arthur said, sounding like his dad. Then we were up on the porch, moving aside the limbs and trash that had blown in, all of us exclaiming over Belle Smiley's good luck. "Smiley was right about her new storm door," Arthur said as we walked on in. "Only a couple of dents. It looks brand new still." We didn't waste any time getting to the kitchen where the basement stairs were. Sure enough, the steps had collapsed under the weight of the back porch, part of which seemed to have slid in sideways, landing in a mound of rubble below, "Mrs. Smiley . . ." we called first, taking turns, listening. "Smiley, can you hear us?" Our only answer was the moaning of wind as it tore through the broken windows and rattled the house. If she was down there, she didn't hear us. Or couldn't answer, one or the other. Our next problem was getting below to find her. After dismissing a few hare-brained ideas of mine, Arthur came up |
