May 31, 1985—A Day Forever Etched in Memory.

June 4, 2025.

050-002-233

Oral History

Local History & Genealogy Center

Warren-Trumbull County Public Library.

May 31, 1985—A Day Forever Etched in Memory The heat was relentless that afternoon. I worked until 3 p.m. at a plastic plant in Middlefield, where the humidity pressed against my chest like an unbearable weight. Every door in the plant stood open, fans running at full force, yet relief was nowhere to be found. After my shift, I returned home to Newton Falls—a place I had moved to just before the tornado struck. For a couple of years, after I graduated, I had been living in my childhood home at 1820 Niles Warren River Road in Niles, Ohio, renting it from Dad and Mom after they built a house next door to my childhood home. But now, Newton Falls was my new home, a fresh start in a familiar region. Seeking a moment of peace, I decided to sit outside and soak up the sun. As I gazed at the sky, an eerie sight caught my eye—clouds unlike any I had seen before, rolling and twisting as if they were boiling. It was a scene I would witness only once in my lifetime. The television issued tornado watches, but warnings like these were common, and I paid little attention to them. Later, as my baby slept soundly in the crib, I stepped into the shower, unaware that everything was about to change. Just moments after I had dried off, a chilling announcement came through “A tornado has just hit Newton Falls. It’s headed toward Warren and Niles." Without hesitation, I grabbed my baby daughter and ran out the door, driven by one instinct—the need to reach the only home that had ever truly felt like mine. My childhood home on Warren Avenue, the place where I had boarded the school bus for 12 years, where I had experienced life, love, and family. Racing from Newton Falls, I arrived at Warren Avenue, only to find the road blocked. Someone told me Niles had been hit—and it was bad. My heart pounded, my breath caught in my throat, and my eyes filled with tears. Fear gripped me. My whole family lived there. With no way forward, I turned around, taking W. Park Avenue, the road that ran behind Warren Avenue. Every second felt like an eternity. With no way forward, I turned around and took W. Park Avenue, the road that ran behind Warren Avenue. My sister worked nearby, close to Waddell Park, and when I arrived, I felt an initial wave of relief—there was no damage. My parents were there too, along with my sister, safe and unharmed. Thank God! But that relief was short-lived. My mother turned to me with words that sent a chill through my bones “Our home area is unrecognizable." We gathered and cut through the park, heading toward my parents' property. The devastation we saw along the way was unimaginable—it looked as if a bomb had hit. Homes were destroyed, debris scattered in every direction, and the once-familiar landscape was now unrecognizable. We lived only a short distance from the park, but as I approached my childhood home, a deep shock took hold of me. Right in the middle of Warren Avenue, a massive fuel oil tank lay crumpled, blocking the road. It looked as though a giant had stepped on it, crushing it like a soda can. For nearly 20 years, my father had climbed those tanks, working tirelessly for Ashland Oil. Seeing all these tanks demolished in such a way was surreal, a stark reminder of the tornado’s raw power. The home I knew had been lifted from its foundation, shifted nearly 6 to 12 inches. The roof was gone, and everything from upstairs lay scattered across the lawn. The pine trees my father had planted behind the house had vanished, and the fence that once enclosed the property lay shattered, broken beyond repair. Every window in the house had been blown out. Stepping inside, I made my way upstairs, searching for cherished mementos—keepsakes of a life once lived within those walls. But they, too, were gone. As I walked through the battered remains, the house itself seemed to speak to me, its structure shifting and creaking beneath my steps, as if acknowledging my presence one final time. Upstairs was open to the sky. Not long after, the house was condemned. It was demolished, leaving behind only memories—fragments of a place that had once been home. My dad’s manager lived next door, but his home was completely gone, nothing remained. Ashland Oil, where my father had worked for nearly two decades, was destroyed. Everything was wiped away. While my parents' new home suffered only minor damage and was repairable, the storm had done more than just altered the landscape, it changed the course of our lives forever. Fate had set us on a different path. In the wake of the devastation, my father relocated to Ashland Oil’s facility in Lexington, Kentucky, to start anew. And soon, I followed. In October 1985, I left the only place I had ever known, leaving behind my childhood home, lifelong friends, and the familiar comforts of Ohio. I stepped into the unknown, beginning a new chapter in Kentucky alongside my parents. This is how my life was changed and redirected. The past will always remain a part of me, woven into the fabric of who I am. The lessons, the struggles, the losses, they shaped me. But through it all, I learned that home is not just a place. It is my family. It is resilient. And it is the unwavering belief that, no matter how uncertain the road ahead may be, we have the strength to walk it.