As western states battled raging fires and the gulf-coast prepared for another hurricane season during the summer of 2020, the midwestern region anticipated its own unique weather patterns; stifling humidity that makes water sweat, severe thunderstorms that shake the earth's foundation and tornado warnings that paint the sky orange and green. However, folks from the midwest don't take cover, we continue to play outside and let the noises of summer mix with a reverberating crash and count down until the next strike of lightning from our porches.
When a derecho traveled 700 miles from Nebraska to Indiana on August 10th, 2020, with 140mph winds that struck eastern Iowa, residents had never seen anything like it. Characterized by a linear path of destruction, this particular storm sustained winds of 70mph for nearly 60 minutes, tore roofs from their seams, ripped trees from roots and swept semi-trucks on their sides like tinker toys.
That day it took longer than usual to get ahold of anyone in my family back in Iowa. Three or four tries later, I finally reached my sister who was in tears over the phone. She told me everyone was okay but that our hometown in Marion, Iowa and the adjacent Cedar Rapids metro area had been marred by this storm. Cell towers were down, debris blanketed the area, and the broader eastern part of the state had lost power. I was 6 hours away in northern Minnesota but I wanted to go home and check on my family - and to see for myself.
As I drove down the next day I took my usual route, on county roads and one lane highways. Everything seemed as it usually seems in the summer - sun soaked, lush, and fragrant - until I arrived in Urbana via I-380 South. This two lane interstate was backed up for miles, bumper to bumper going both ways, that doesn't happen in Iowa. Residents from hard hit areas had been driving lengths in the opposite direction for gas, food, generators - anything that could help them recover.
When I began to travel between Marion and Cedar Rapids, the derecho's impact was revealed. Most roads were closed as siding, shingles and decades-old trees blocked the way. The usual widened and winding residential streets looked like overgrown allies. Summer sounds from June bugs, cicadas and katydids were replaced with chain saws and sirens. For two weeks I walked around town photographing storm damage, talking with residents, and bouncing between my family members' houses whenever their electricity or air conditioners turned back on. I gravitated toward places that were once familiar - the care facility where I took a nursing class in high school, cemeteries where my family members are buried, the haunted house on 10th street and the barn where my mom revived her love for horse riding. All of these structures and spaces wore the storm's disguise with collected memories scattered beneath.
I found people who continued to clear their yards and driveways several days after the storm, assisting neighbors, or sitting back and watching the rest of summer slip away, somehow getting through with help and humor. Messages began to pop up in yards reminding us to drive slow now that stop lights were out - summer hasn't ended for the neighborhood kids. Light-hearted phrases had been painted on damaged structures to get a laugh or a smile.
Although there is no competition in destruction, Cedar Rapids, Iowa's second largest city, suffered the most damage with a shattered power grid and a shocking loss of half of its tree canopy. Both agriculture and public infrastructures were devastated after 50% of the state's cropland was impacted and 8,000 homes were destroyed. When the derecho dissipated, 500,000 Iowan's were left without power, and many families were displaced from their homes during the hottest days of summer. After several apartment complexes on the southwest side became uninhabitable, refugee and immigrant communities - a large percentage of the essential workforce - were adversely impacted. Many residents criticized the federal government's slow response and questioned the national media's lack of coverage.
When my family got back on their feet and made appointments for repairs I began to pack up for my trip back to Minneapolis as the evening settled in and porch lights flickered into view. I drove a few more loops through town to retrace my steps and make photographs of what I had passed before in flattened acres of corn and hilltop views that put disaster into perspective.
In the weeks that followed, FEMA declared natural disasters in 23 counties while Iowans were left to pick up the pieces of a changing climate. As the one year anniversary of the derecho has passed, midwesterners wonder if this is just the beginning.