My Favorite Helen Hunt Movie

"Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see." I think Edgar Allan Poe — if he had a chance to revise the thought — would agree that the percentage of credible information plummets when it involves what you read on the Internet. Trust me on that. A lot of schlock populates blogs and websites, and I have been responsible for a fraction of that drivel.

Any reasonable person who would accept me as a subject matter expert on supply chain management needs to evaluate their judgement. I have no experience in the industry, yet I get paid for writing about it, which renders the circumstances even more absurd.

What about the “facts” we learned in school?

My high school physics teacher, a wise gentleman who stood about 6'5" and 260 lbs., told our class that Campbell’s Ledge, a local natural landmark, holds global geographic significance. He said that the Susquehanna River, at the base of the precipice, marked the only spot in the world where a river turned inland. At least that's what I think I heard. It was a long time ago, and the lights in my second floor nerve center were always slightly dimmed. A man of integrity, I never doubted what Mr. Wasilewski told me. He oozed intelligence. Besides, had we disagreed, he could have easily shaped me into a pretzel.

Decades later, I haven’t yet found any source that verifies the big guy’s statement. Granted, there have been no consultations with geologists, and as for Internet research… well, refer back to the first paragraph.

One of my favorite teachers, Mr. Wasilewski died in 2016. Regrettably, as with so many other family stories and local lore, I squandered the chance to ask him for more clarity on the Ledge subject. If anyone out there knows a geologist other than Randy Marsh, please step forward.

There also exist the childhood lessons we learned from parents, relatives, and older friends. We clung to myths like those things (the round prickly ones and the flat two-pronged ones) you can never easily remove from your clothes or your socks after bushwhacking through the weeds and the brush.

As a kid, tornadoes intrigued me with equal measures of fascination and fright. Someone — and I don’t recall who, but maybe it was my dad — quashed my fear of such a windstorm destroying our home on Broad Street in Pittston, Pennsylvania. The hilly terrain would never allow a twister to thrive, they said. Past calamities have proven the theory false.

Nonetheless, I still have trouble heeding tornado warnings that accompany thunderstorm occurrences. So, on June 13, 2018, when the alerts flashed across the television screen, my visit with my 88-year-old mom veered slightly off the rails.

She didn’t seem concerned with the weather at all. More annoying was the interruption of her daily dose of television. Anne Keating Tracy tuned in to a global game show each day in hopes that some unbelievably elevated big doofus would be given the bum’s rush.

I’m not much for game shows. I’d rather watch Green Acres. Besides, my more pressing issues gathered at arm’s length in those days and not in Hollywood or Pyongyang.

As the storm approached Pittston, the frequent cutaways to local weather forecasters irritated my mother more than the threat of a damaged dwelling or personal harm. If this happened to be the night my mother’s version of Titus Andronicus got sent offstage, many, many days of fervent hope for her would have been all for naught. Like falling asleep in the theatre before Luke’s father gets his due. I know she had never seen either flick so it wouldn’t have helped matters to mention how Anton Chigurh and Hannibal Lecter walked away almost unscathed .

Something had to give. And it did.

When the phone rang at 10:15 p.m. EST, it could only be one person: my dear sister Molly. She’s more a fan of Van Morisson than she is any bumbling game show participants. However, at that moment, her stereo was powered off, and her television blared on.

Forty Fort, where my sis resides, sat right in the path of the tornado. At times, I understand her occasional bouts with semi-hysteria. This night wasn’t one of those times.

“Put Tommie on the phone,” I overheard Molly say. Our Mom shrugged and gave me the handset.

“I know, I know,” I said before anything else.

“Seriously, what should I do?”

“Look, you have the benefit of technology. Dorothy didn’t. If you wake up in Oz, just text me. Oma (as she was known to her grandchildren) and I will jump in the car and come get you. I always wanted to see one of those flying dudes up close anyway.”

“You’re not funny. I’m taking the cats and going in the basement.”

“That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do! Call us when you, Dylan, Hendrix, Donovan, and Billie (Holiday) surface. If you spot Toto, send that text.”

Click.

Maybe I should take my eldest sibling more seriously in the future. She and her property suffered no damage that night. Other folks weren’t as fortunate. I found out the next day that the tornado caused widespread damage to homes and businesses. (As a side note, I had a few laughs at the expense of a family member, but I prayed that the victims of the storm would recover quickly. I do not believe there were any serious injuries or fatalities.)

My point in all this? I’m not quite certain.

I do think that grass is green. The sky is blue. And Costanza’s was painted yellow.

Even though I wasn’t part of the generation that recommended suspicion, I still don’t trust anyone in the government.

When I do tune in, my skepticism extends mostly to local weather forecasts.

The only things I turn on these days are the stove and the shower.

Many of my old pals and mentors have dropped out — of sight, that is — and I miss them dearly.

Most of all, nothing surprises me anymore. I do have to see it before I believe it and even then, I’m still not sure.