Howdy Earthlings!
A friend texted me a couple of nights ago, wondering if my mom was alright, given all the tornadoes in my hometown. Wha? Tornadoes!? News to me, but a quick search showed, yep, tornadoes where I grew up!
Here's some video by storm chaser Brandon Copic: https://youtu.be/HOWGZOHRWno?si=FQt1wMZyUJ6xPDdN
I texted my mom to check, and thankfully, she soon texted back with confirmation that she was indeed okay. Later, she sent the picture I've associated with this post. Pretty wild, right?
You may not know it, but I have a long history with tornadoes--as does anyone raised in the Midwest, of course. But even after all this time, I still have nightmares about them. (And recurring nightmares about Bigfoot and nuclear bombs, but that's a story for another time.)
My closest brush with a tornado was when I was probably about 13. I was an altar boy, and had been promoted to "captain" of a small team of other altar boys. The upshot of that was that I was the one tasked with a little extra clean-up after each mass. Which was why I was the only one still around the church after a weekday mass concluded one summer afternoon.
As usual, after finishing up, I left the church and closed the door behind me. Then I walked out onto the church's side terrace, drawn to look at some weird clouds. Three of them had these odd, pointy funnels at the bottom. "Huh," I thought, turning away as cold rain splattered me.
I'd made it just a couple of steps back toward the door when the sirens went off. I probably jumped a foot. As I ascended, my panicked thought was, "Nuclear bomb siren!" But as I came down, I recognized the sound: it was a tornado warning, and "OMG THOSE WERE FUNNEL CLOUDS AND I WAS RIGHT UNDER THEM."
So I ran to the door, yanked on it, thinking—
The door was locked. Of course it was. I'd closed it as I left, automatically locking it. Oh shiiiiiit.
Well, I beat on the door and screamed for someone to let me in, but Father Wolf and the housekeeper had already descended into the church's basement. (Actually, the residence was downstairs.)
So, I just locked my arms through the door handle and turned around to see what was going on behind me. Everything in front of me went white with howling rain, spotted with darker flashing shapes of debris, mostly tree branches whipping past. I think I kept yelling for someone to let me in, but the tornado's scream smothered everything.
After what seemed like a half hour, the white haze faded. I could see the terrace and across the way again, under rain descending vertically like rain is supposed to, rather than being whipped into a froth in a tornado's touchdown-halo. Yep, quite a mess.
But I was no worse for wear. Something about where I was standing in the doorway had completely protected me from the flying debris or being sucked out into the haze.
About two minutes after that, the door slammed open and Father Wolf burst out, as wide-eyed and scared as I've ever seen anyone look. My Mom had just called to ask him if I was alright, you see.
Luckily, I was. I got to enjoy a nice meal with Father Wolf and his housekeeper in their cozy downstairs residence while we waited for my parents to come pick me up.
In the end, I was fine. And I came out of it with a good story to tell.
But I still sometimes dream of tornadoes.
