That WAS Close . . .
Too close. Tuesday morning I woke up to the buzz that Oklahoma would experience a tornado outbreak during the late afternoon hours. The risk of this had been upgraded from moderate to high. If you are wondering how Oklahoma can predict that tornadoes will happen at 4:00 PM, I will explain. First, the National Weather Center is in Oklahoma. In fact, I pass it just about everyday. It is VERY close to my house. Second, Oklahoma is located in the heart of Tornado Alley. Meaning? Air masses join up right over this state and when they mix you get all kinds of horrid conditions. The kind of conditions that produce tornadoes that can level the same town twice within five years. That town happens to be 20 minutes away from me. Third, due to the number of severe storms we get, meterologists study the pre-conditions and outcomes on a regular basis.
In short, Oklahoma KNOWS tornadoes.
So, when a meterologist tells you at 8:00 AM that you want to be ready to get in a storm shelter between 3:00 PM and 6:00 PM...YOU LISTEN.
My office closed its doors at 3:00 PM. Many businesses sent their employees home at 3:00 PM. It was a wise decision, too. At around 3:30, the first tornado touched down about an hour northwest of us. It was MASSIVE, three tornadoes had merged into one. The half-mile wide funnel lumbered across the ground, chewing up powerlines, crushing homes, tossing cars, and shutting down highways. My friend, JP, and I watched in horror and amazement.
One by one, tornadoes dropped from the sky, and left a path of destruction as if they were bullies on an elementary playground, taking what belonged to others and showing indifference to their tears. But all the activity was north of my house . . . until . . . oh, around 4:30 PM. A storm was brewing in the southwest. A BIG storm. As big . . . no, bigger than the one that produced the half-mile wide tornado an hour before. The meterologist told us to get UNDER GROUND. The storm would be deadly.
A Beast was coming.
A direct hit on my town, straight down the road I live on. He was angry. He was hungry. He was destructive.
But my friend and I had prepared for such an creature. We had taken water, snacks, a weather radio, toys for the baby, and flashlights into the underground storm shelter. At five, we learned The Beast would be at our door at 5:45 PM. We planned to go to the shelter at 5:30 PM. At 5:30 PM the meterologist said The Beast decided to take his time, he enjoyed taunting us. He would arrive at 5:55 PM. A minute later, the sirens sounded. He changed his mind. He was coming . . . now. All 15 of us (11 adults and 4 kids (all under the age of five)) climbed into the shelter built for eight to ten people.
We introduced ourselves. We talked about our day. We talked about . . . well, anything other than what was about to happen.
Then the text messages started: "OMG!! Tell me u r n a shelter." "I just saw your town is about to get hit. R U OK." "The storm has passed us, but is on Hwy 9. Take cover." "R U underground?" "R U Safe?"
My heart raced. My palms sweated.
Winds howled. Hail banged against the house. Sirens roared.
Moms hugged their children, wiped away their sweat.
Husbands listened to radios and searched the internet, desperate to find information.
Where is The Beast?
What is He doing right now?
Then we heard the National Weather Center was making staff take cover.
The Beast was close. Too close.
We waved toys in front of the kids. We fed them raisins and granola bars. We swallowed our fear. J called a friend. "It's hovering over us. It keeps dropping down and going back up. It's throwing the debris that it gathered on His last stop," J announced as he closed his phone.
We waited.
And listened.
Then . . .
The sirens stopped.
He had retreated.
We exhaled a collective breath.
It was 6:30.
We were exhausted.
We are overjoyed we get to see our cars on four tires and not wrapped around a tree.
We are thankful we get see a neighborhood with standing homes and trees with leaves.
We are okay.
I'm okay.
In short, Oklahoma KNOWS tornadoes.
So, when a meterologist tells you at 8:00 AM that you want to be ready to get in a storm shelter between 3:00 PM and 6:00 PM...YOU LISTEN.
My office closed its doors at 3:00 PM. Many businesses sent their employees home at 3:00 PM. It was a wise decision, too. At around 3:30, the first tornado touched down about an hour northwest of us. It was MASSIVE, three tornadoes had merged into one. The half-mile wide funnel lumbered across the ground, chewing up powerlines, crushing homes, tossing cars, and shutting down highways. My friend, JP, and I watched in horror and amazement.
One by one, tornadoes dropped from the sky, and left a path of destruction as if they were bullies on an elementary playground, taking what belonged to others and showing indifference to their tears. But all the activity was north of my house . . . until . . . oh, around 4:30 PM. A storm was brewing in the southwest. A BIG storm. As big . . . no, bigger than the one that produced the half-mile wide tornado an hour before. The meterologist told us to get UNDER GROUND. The storm would be deadly.
A Beast was coming.
A direct hit on my town, straight down the road I live on. He was angry. He was hungry. He was destructive.
But my friend and I had prepared for such an creature. We had taken water, snacks, a weather radio, toys for the baby, and flashlights into the underground storm shelter. At five, we learned The Beast would be at our door at 5:45 PM. We planned to go to the shelter at 5:30 PM. At 5:30 PM the meterologist said The Beast decided to take his time, he enjoyed taunting us. He would arrive at 5:55 PM. A minute later, the sirens sounded. He changed his mind. He was coming . . . now. All 15 of us (11 adults and 4 kids (all under the age of five)) climbed into the shelter built for eight to ten people.
We introduced ourselves. We talked about our day. We talked about . . . well, anything other than what was about to happen.
Then the text messages started: "OMG!! Tell me u r n a shelter." "I just saw your town is about to get hit. R U OK." "The storm has passed us, but is on Hwy 9. Take cover." "R U underground?" "R U Safe?"
My heart raced. My palms sweated.
Winds howled. Hail banged against the house. Sirens roared.
Moms hugged their children, wiped away their sweat.
Husbands listened to radios and searched the internet, desperate to find information.
Where is The Beast?
What is He doing right now?
Then we heard the National Weather Center was making staff take cover.
The Beast was close. Too close.
We waved toys in front of the kids. We fed them raisins and granola bars. We swallowed our fear. J called a friend. "It's hovering over us. It keeps dropping down and going back up. It's throwing the debris that it gathered on His last stop," J announced as he closed his phone.
We waited.
And listened.
Then . . .
The sirens stopped.
He had retreated.
We exhaled a collective breath.
It was 6:30.
We were exhausted.
We are overjoyed we get to see our cars on four tires and not wrapped around a tree.
We are thankful we get see a neighborhood with standing homes and trees with leaves.
We are okay.
I'm okay.