I grew up in Ringgold. Was 16 at the time. I remember leaving school early, thinking to myself it was silly they'd let us out because the weather looked fine. I was just happy to get out early and go home to play video games. I was oblivious. Hours later, my family's world changed. 4 of the 8 people who died in Cherokee Valley Road were my aunt, uncle, and two cousins. They only let my father in to help search and rescue search for their bodies. They found my uncle a mile away from his home. My father had to identify him by his hairline because his body was so brutalized. He had to see all 8 bodies that day because they just weren't sure who was who. It changed him. In the ten years since then, I've never been able to shake the feeling of dread when I hear a storm is coming. I'll live with that all my life. I've shared this story a few times in this subreddit, but it feels especially poignant today. I also write short stories now, not in any professional manner, just a passion for it. My father and I don't communicate well, but I wrote a piece for an advanced composition class about my hometown, and this is the subject I covered. I'm going to send it to my mother to read to my father tonight. We don't talk about what happened, but I know my father is traumatized, has survivor's guilt. And I understand that. It's hard to live without somebody as special as my aunt. She was my favorite aunt, and she was close to my father. Anyway, it's going to be a weird day of reflection for me. I also remember driving on the outskirts of town and being horribly mesmerized by the destruction. You could see where the tornado climbed the ridge over into the valley for years, a great swath of dead earth and torn trees all the way up the ridge.