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Tornado Alley

It always feels strange to not be home, in Oklahoma, on two days of the year. The first is April 19. The second, and the one on which the strange feeling is the most compelling, is May 3. Maybe because it's more private, more of a local thing.

May 3, 1999 is the date of the F5 tornado that leveled several communities, killed 49 people, and changed the way tornadoes are classified and measured. Actually, there were 140 some-odd separate tornadoes that day, but it's the big one that everyone remembers. And it missed me and my hometown, but just barely. There's a legend that my town, Norman, has been protected from tornadoes for centuries because the Canadian River on the edge of town is a sacred place for the tribes who lived there. It's never far from the big storms, though, which is maybe why NOAA's Storm Prediction Center and the NWS Severe Storms Lab is there.

By early afternoon on May 3, the smell of ozone reached all the way into the mall where I worked, beating out the competing smells of Auntie Anne's and Bath and Body Works. I didn't have to see the sky to know the ceiling had lowered, the lid of the jar was screwed on tight. The radio weather guys had been replaced by the actual meteorologists, who are all known by first name in Oklahoma and are local celebs. My favorite is Gary England. (He is in Twister for about 30 seconds.) I think Rick Mitchell was on, so I changed the channel. Gary's usual small-town nonchalance- he's from Cement - had been replaced by something, and it took me a few minutes to realize that it was a mixture of awe and fear.

Big storms. Bigger than we storm-jaded Okies had seen. Bigger than those of Jarrell, TX, a few years prior.

First they hit Chickasha. This small city is just a 20-30 minute drive to the southwest from where I was. It was barreling towards Norman, straight towards Sooner Fashion Mall, where I stood, trying to sell engagement rings to customers who were distracted by the weather reports. To a couple from Chickasha, who were hearing that they couldn't get home, and might not have a home to go to. Gary England, who always told people to shelter in place, that you cannot outrun or outwit a tornado, was telling to people to flee or they might not live. Put helmets and protective equipment, bulletproof vests, anything, on the kids and flee for their lives.

We shut the gate to the store and headed for the shelter of the access hall behind the store. I ducked behind the racks of Chik-fil-a buns - they were our neighbor - and cried and shook with fear. Not all that shaking was me, I realized, as I noticed the roof of the mall was gently rising and falling, like a flag in a slight breeze. I thought my ears were ringing with the noise of the violent winds - actually, it was the utter absence of noise and incredibly low pressure. After the few longest minutes of my life, the ceiling stilled and noise returned. The radio signal squawked back to life, to tell us that the funnel had retracted, although the circulation itself was still very low, and passed over Norman, directly over the mall. We had been buffeted by the downbursts, and the HVAC units mangled, but we were not hit.

Moments later, the biggest tornado in history dropped down. The town of Moore, just about 5 minutes from my house in north Norman, was nearly destroyed. So were other nearby communities. The overpass I crossed everyday, several years later, to get to classes was the site of several deaths, including one woman ripped away from her son. They had sheltered under the overpass, as we had been told to do for years. The suction actually increased when the winds were compressed, and made the overpass more dangerous than the open road. Bolts were sucked from bridges - bolts nearly as long as I am tall. The ground was denuded, and not down to the famous and beloved red dirt. Down to the rock and clay below.

Everywhere around me, towns in all directions had been hit. People I knew were injured and their homes destroyed. Their workplaces were destroyed, their schools, and banks. Okies fled once, but the ones who stayed behind raised up a crop of folks out of that rock and clay and red dirt who are as stubborn as the land. They, we, took folks in, if not out of compassion, out of dire necessity. There was no way to do nothing - there were no roads to bring in supplies and food. Debris had to be moved to let emergency crews in. People had to be cleared out of disaster zones so the flattened remains of buildings could be taken away and live power lines and leaking gas lines could be dealt with. Work was well underway before FEMA arrived.

It was a few years before I could hear tornado sirens without losing myself to sheer panic. I refused to go to movies or to malls and big-box stores on days when I could sense a serious thunderstorm (I'm more reliable than radar.) If the sirens sounded, I gathered my purse and important documents and placed them in the tub. I put on closed-toe shoes - can't climb through debris in sandals - and put my ID and ATM cards in my pocket. If I died, I could be identified. If I lived, I would need access to cash if my house were destroyed. It was a foregone conclusion that the big one was coming back for me.

Now I find that I miss the sound of thunder. It cheers me to hear it here in Northern Virginia. The rumble of planes flying in and out of Reagan International isn't an adequate substitute. I can't say that I'm nostalgic for storm sirens, though.

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Comment by Boring User Name on May 3, 2010 at 12:14pm: Thanks for the post. We always get short bursts of prose from you, but it is nice to read something longer. What a scary day!

I grew up in tornado alley as well. The real Night of the Twisters occurred about 45 minutes from my house when I was 7, so I was well aware of the power of tornadoes from a young age.* And I get reminded every so often--I was at the movie theater when one storm wrecked havoc on my town, without even any confirmed tornadoes. And two years ago, a tornado hit my parents business. That storm made it onto StormChasers, although they didn't film the tornado because it wasn't safe to.

I was I am glad to be living in a house with a basement again. I feel safer.

Comment by Mamawho on May 3, 2010 at 2:34pm: I had a basement in Texas, which is really weird. Of course, we didn't have a tornado while we lived there. After we moved to our other house in Texas, one without a basement, we had a tornado touch down about a block away. Gah!

DaddyWho has a weird sense of humor. He asked me if I wanna watch Twister tonight. I do love that movie.

Comment by Joe Mama on May 3, 2010 at 6:28pm: As an New Englander I have only dealt with hurricanes - which are scary because they can last for hours and you just start to get numb, but have no where near as much concentrated fury as a twister. I'm glad you are hear to tell me about it...and this is as close as I want to get!

Comment by mightyninjamom on May 3, 2010 at 6:53pm: yeesh. That's one natural disaster I can do without. I've hit my quota for my lifetime!

Comment by The Oracle on May 3, 2010 at 11:01pm: Wow. Thanks for this. Oddly (or maybe not), I have no memory of this event. Sounds terrifying.

Comment by Mommy Monster on May 4, 2010 at 5:14am: Having lived in Kansas for a while as a kid, I have a very healthy fear of them myself. My father's office building was partially flattened by one, killing two people on the other end of the structure. He was not hurt, but scared shitless all the same. I still freak out when I hear the sirens, too.

Tornado Alley

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