Editor's Note: On a Friday in late April 1958, 50 years ago last week, the front page of The Greeneville Sun was dominated by a six-column, two-line headline in large, bold letters announcing some shocking news for a county seldom hit by weather disasters: "Lost Mountain Area Raked By Wind Storm Last Night."

Under the headline was a large black-and-white photo (the only kind that the Sun and other U.S. newspapers could print at that time) showing V.E. Jones, now deceased, pointing to the rubble of what had been his store in the Lost Mountain Community

Lost Mountain native William Lynn McNeese, now of San Juan, Puerto Rico, was a young boy at that time and was in his grandfather Jones' store when it was hit by what was later called a "microburst."

In this original article, Mr. McNeese recalls that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon. The photo, taken by the late Bobby Burns, who was then a Greeneville Sun staff photographer, was the one used in the Sun on April 25, 1958.

It was Thursday, April 24, 1958, a typical lazy spring day in the Lost Mountain Community of northern Greene County. (April 24th fell on a Thursday this year also.)

I was 9 years old but pushing 10 real hard. Lost Mountain School had let out about 3 p.m., and my day of "learnin' " in Aunt Mary McNeese's third grade class was over. I had crossed the road to my grandfather Jones' store, and I promptly went to the big red Coca-Cola drink box, pulled out a cold "Yeller Dope" and grabbed a Moon Pie, my favorites. Remember those Orange Crush brown bottles with the little rings around them? Both were a nickel apiece. We called soft drinks "Dopes" at the time; still don't know why.

My grandfather, Virgil E. Jones, was a merchant all his life, owning and working in stores in Baileyton, Lost Mountain, and Pine Grove. For many years he had a store in Lost Mountain, and in 1951 he built the two-story concrete block store on the corner of the Horton Highway and Lost Mountain Pike.

I grew up in Lost Mountain but never knew the name of the road now known as the Lost Mountain Pike. I always thought of it as the road to Starnes' store (about a mile away), or to the Lick Creek bridge at Max Marion's, or the road to Holland's Mill. And the Horton Highway -- now why was it called the Horton Highway? It was named after Governor Henry Hollis Horton, who served as Tennessee's Governor from 1927-1933.

Bet a lot of people who live on the Horton Highway don't know it was once called the Snapp's Ferry Road before it was named for Governor Horton. There is another Snapp's Ferry Road that parallels Highway 93; guess having two Snapp's Ferry roads in Greene County was just too confusing. I know where Snapp's Ferry once was -- but hold it, this story isn't about the names of the Greene County roads. It's about a storm of 1958.

My grandfather sold everything from fertilizer to pinto beans, plus gave S&H green stamps. The store had three levels: There was a basement where the fertilizer was stored, and a second floor where the horse collars were hung and where the local women quilted during the winter months. But it was on the first floor where all the activity took place.

There were four large glass windows in the front about 5 feet high by 8 feet wide, two on each side, with double doors in the middle. A big semi-circular wooden counter greeted customers as they entered the store. The moon pies were on the left, and the red Coca-Cola boxes were on the right.

That afternoon my grandfather had gone to Pine Grove to visit another store he owned with Wilber Thompson. So that left my grandmother, Dora Jones; Lena Kilday, who had worked in the store for many, many years; and myself in the store.

It was about 4:30 p.m., and not much was happening. Don White, who lived about a quarter-mile away, had just driven up on his tractor. Don usually came to the store about that time, after a hard day's work, and before he had to start milking. Don, a wonderful gentleman, would have a Coca-Cola, the ones in the small 7-ounce bottle, sit on one of the benches outside, and watch traffic pass till it was time to milk.

Before Don arrived, the sky had darkened, but no one thought anything of it, just another spring rain. As he was parking his tractor, the wind really started to blow. He stepped on the front porch and was walking in front of one of the big windows when his cap blew off. He turned and took a couple steps to retrieve it but couldn't -- the wind was much stronger.

He turned around and quickly ran to the front door. By the time he entered the door, the entire outside had turned a yellowish-orange. My grandmother was behind the counter, Lena Kilday was towards the rear of the store arranging items. I had just got up from the chair at my grandfather's roll-up desk, which was located in the center of the store, and was walking to the front when the commotion started.

Don struggled to close the front door but finally got it closed. And then all hell broke loose. One of the large plate-glass windows exploded into a thousand pieces. Even now I can close my eyes and see the small chards of glass slowly rotating as they fly through the air, all toward me. I turned and ran for the rear of the store as the airborne missiles were hitting my back. Quickly I ducked under the roll-up desk.

My grandmother was screaming, and Don was still standing in the front holding the doors closed. Debris, potato chips, and papers were flying everywhere. My grandmother made her way to where Don was, and was screaming for me to join them. I ducked down and made it to the front as fast as I could.

We stayed at the door for a moment and Don decided we should leave the store and try to make it to the gas pumps. A "freight train" was roaring around us -- the noise was tremendous; everywhere things were flying around.

Don put his left arm around me and his right around my grandmother. It seemed like we were walking horizontal; it was all our legs could do to push us into the wind. And it felt like bricks were hitting us head-on. Hail started to pound us, and it hurt.

We finally, after what seemed like an eternity, made it to the gas pumps.

My grandfather sold Sinclair gas, and there were two tall pumps with four chrome handles that ran vertical on each corner. They put me next to the pump. My grandmother was behind me, and Don surrounded us both with his arms, all of us holding on to the chrome handles. What would we have done if it were not for Don's quick thinking and actions?

At this age I was tall and skinny, about as thick as a stack of pancakes. And I felt like one as both my grandmother and Don held me to the pumps. The hail and rain continued, and the noise was deafening.

It was about this time we really started to pray. Now I can tell you there was some heavy praying that took place that day surrounding those pumps. Even though the storm was loud, our voices must have gotten through.

I glanced back at the store just as the second floor was blowing away, and told my grandmother to look. She told me not to look, just keep praying, and I did. We thought our time had come.

Finally the wind slackened, but the hail continued to pound. The golf ball-sized hail was bouncing off the metal pumps, making a high-pitched ping. It started to rain real hard after the hail stopped.

Don said we needed to get to cover, but there was no place to go. The store was in shambles, and it was too dangerous to go back in. At the end of the parking lot were three or four cars, owned by men who worked in Kingsport at Tennessee Eastman. They would leave their cars when they caught the bus from Baileyton to Kingsport.

Don told us to hold on tight and he would see if any of them was unlocked. He ran to them, and we watched as he pulled on each door handle without success. He ran back to join my grandmother and me, and within a few seconds the rain slackened to a heavy drizzle.

We turned, facing the store, wet, beaten up, and in shock at what we saw. The second floor was completely gone. The concrete porch roof had tilted on the front wall and was at about a 45-degree angle facing upwards. Concrete blocks, wood, merchandise, and leaves were everywhere.

Lena Kilday had done the smart thing and gone down the stairs to the basement. She was pretty shook up, but OK. Norman Ball had driven up when the storm had just started and parked behind the store. It must have been scary for him to see the second floor fly over his head and land in the nearby field.

After the storm was over, we all assembled in front, and soon the neighborhood gathered. We were all OK -- had a bunch of bumps on our head from the hail, but OK. My mother took my grandmother and me to see Doc Hawkins. He rubbed some alcohol on my cuts and bumps, and to my disappointment said I could go to school the next day.

Members of the Greeneville Emergency & Rescue Squad stayed all night to protect what was left in the store. My grandfather rebuilt the store with a lot of help from all the good people in the community and operated it until he had a stroke in the mid-1960s.

The storm just fell out of the sky and cut a tiny path through the community. One of grandfather's barns was completely flattened. It had contained 30 young calves; they all survived except one. J. V. Carter lost a garage and chicken house. They said it was not a tornado, but a microburst.

It's been 50 years. Everyone that was in the store that day is gone except Don White and me. Don still lives in the same house in Lost Mountain. I don't think I ever thanked Don for saving us that day.

Thank you, Don; you will always be my Hero. I will never forget you, and the Storm of 1958.