My hatred of tornadoes developed at a very early age.
Atlanta’s weather pattern in the early 1970’s was particularly sucky (pun intended). On March 24, 1975, an EF-3 tornado hit Georgia’s governor’s mansion. One went over our house, too, ripping down our basketball goal and removing our TV antenna from our chimney. Dad got us out of bed and we made it to the hallway, not the basement. It happened that quick. My crackling AM radio was a crude form of radar. When I was a little kid, I knew that that crackling meant a storm was on the way. Then panic would wash over me.
Forget flying monkeys; the giant sock tornado in the Wizard of Oz scared the living crud out of me.
When Amy and I moved to San Diego, I knew I was finally safe from the twisty funnels of death. Sure, California had earthquakes and wildfires and the whole state could fall into the sea, but there would be no tornadoes to blow me to OZ. HA HA HA HA — I’m safe from you, tornadoes!
Then San Diego had a waterspout.
Curses.
in 1996, we decided to move to the absolutely worst place for tornadoes this side of Oklahoma City — Mississippi. When we first moved got here, my weather radio (which wasn’t one that could be programmed for a county) would go off if a cow farted in Port Gibson. Living on the second floors of our apartment, there were many sleepless nights. When we moved into our house in 1998, there really wasn’t a good Tornado safe place. We had a few close calls over the years — one night I remember the lightning being like a Halloween Haunted House strobe light as we scrambled for the hall as a funnel passed nearby. Another time, we sat in the hallway as one went over the house. I sang the “Bob the Builder” theme song to my first son (who was a toddler at the time) to calm him.
I think I was trying to calm myself.
I had never seen a tornado in person until I moved here. I remember I was supposed to be WLBT one morning but as I was driving to the studio, I could see a tornado rip through Madison (the Fairfield storm). They called: My appearance was cancelled.
Good call.
I remember being on the radio during the horrific April 2011 outbreak. After three hours of calling tornado warnings, my final words were, “If you have a student at the University of Alabama, tell you child to take cover and that you love them.”
I think it is cosmically unfair that in the heart of Dixie Alley (named in 1971, not 1861) is a place where you can’t have basements. It’s like it is some kind of voodoo curse on us.
Have I mentioned I hate tornadoes?
They suck.
Yet, over time I’ve come to terms with severe weather.
I still know the words to Bob the Builder, btw. I pray I don’t need to sing it today. Can we build it? Yes we can. But I don’t want to rebuild it. I believe the Good Lord brought me to Mississippi for many reasons. One is to deal with fear of things I can’t control. And I can’t control the weather. It brings me a weird sense of peace.
Our 12-month tornado season has brought me a degree of acceptance. But I do know one thing: I’m about ready for the tutorials to end.