In other words, she gets pissed every time we walk outside our front door, and she’s not afraid to show it. She hasn’t started dive-bombing us yet, but she chatters her discontent in the loudest way a robin knows how, and good-freaking-day, she’s loud.
Last spring was sad—she built her next in the crook of a smaller branch towards the exterior of the willow. Living within a stone’s throwing distance of Tornado Alley; we get strong thunderstorms from March to November. The location of her nest was not optimal for surviving those thunderstorms. This year I was happy to note her return to rebuild and her choice to build that nest in a crevice right in the middle of the tree.
Yesterday, just as I was leaving work, I stepped outside to witness the sun shining through a downpour. The sky was not green, or purple (and if you’ve never seen a tornado, it DOES get green), but the light was odd—peachy, in a way. I’ve been in tornadoes, massive lightning storms, and even a micro-burst, and I don’t trust peachy skies during thunderstorms. It made my skin prickle and that familiar metallic taste come to my mouth. As soon as I stepped outside, our county threw the sirens.
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| I tried to take a picture of the light; it doesn't do it justice. |
Fuckity-fuckit-fuck. I have kids to pick up from school.
I called the Nana, who promptly let me know that despite the fact that they live 35 miles away, they were, in fact, in the basement. The Nana ALWAYS goes to the basement. The storm did not involve a confirmed tornado yet, and if it did, the wind shear was south of our town—so it would likely end up being in that area—but there was teacup-sized hail.
Fortunately, I never saw the hail, and the sirens went quiet shortly thereafter. I didn’t have to worry about trying to get to my kids with the schools in lockdown. All the nastiness would show up about 125 miles to the east, about two hours later.
To say that we’ve grown complacent about the prospect of a tornado is an understatement. Years and years of listening to the sirens be thrown at least a dozen times during the season leaves you with less, “Let’s get to an interior room, kids,” and more with, “Hon, turn it to the news channel, and let’s see what they’re saying.” I do not suggest that this should be your plan of action. It’s a bad habit we’ve developed. In part, we really developed this nasty, dangerous habit while living in St. Louis.
St. Louis was never really hit by a tornado while we lived there for eight years, despite the fact that they throw the sirens at the drop of a hat. If a surrounding county throws the sirens, St. Louis County is bound to throw theirs, even if the storm will not directly impact anyone in the county. So, plenty of warnings, and no tornadoes, except for the possible one that hit while my husband was working on the airport runway expansion and the Lindbergh tunnel.
It was an early Saturday morning in May, and Ant was a baby. J was working every day of the week, and working ten hour shifts, no less. The weather had been cooperating with the construction of the tunnel, and they were playing catch-up. I got the standard, “Just to let you know I’m okay” call from him at about the same time they threw the sirens in our neck of the woods. I received more than one, “In case you see something on the news, I wanted to let you know I’m okay,” phone calls.
Since we’ve left, however, there seems to be a huge tornado spike in the area. Several townships in the county had a tornado on New Year’s Eve, and now, yesterday evening, Lambert International and the surrounding North County area was hit.
In, fact, right now there were 24 reports of tornadoes last night in St. Louis city and county. They think there may have been up to nine tornadoes/funnels. Fortunately, no deaths have been reported, and there have been no serious injuries. It’s a damn miracle.
I found out about it on Twitter and Facebook last night. We made the obligatory phone calls to family to make sure everyone was okay, and they were. Then, I started to realize just how severe the storms had been when Lambert started trending on Twitter, amazingly enough.
I am now watching 24 hour coverage on CNN. It’s wild. I’ve flown out of Lambert too many times to remember, and the shuttle that was thrown on top of the short-term parking garage in front of the main terminal was a MOEX airport shuttle from our town. That’s a creepy feeling—knowing the places and things involved in such a way.
Last night, after making sure everyone was fine, and viewing the pictures of the damage, I stepped outside to catch my breath. The skies were clear over our heads, and I witnessed the planes that were turning around, heading back west, most likely heading back towards KCI, since Lambert is out of commission indefinitely. They made slow, lazy arches above our house, lights blinking fast so high above our house.
Tornadoes used to fascinate me. Off and on I’ve daydreamed of taking one of those storm-chasing vacations. My parents lived through one of the largest tornadoes in recorded history, back when they were teenagers. I remember the Nana describing how she pulled a twin mattress over the children she was babysitting that afternoon and herself, as they sought shelter in a bathtub. The Gramps had been at a carnival that afternoon, and then was promptly inducted into the paramedics unit that evening. Ever see the pictures of hay embedded in trees? Yeah, that happened. During college, a small one hit the edge of our college campus, and I was there to witness it. As an adult, I’ve witnessed the destruction a tornado can cause—only a few years ago one nearly destroyed Pitcher, OK. I had family who lived in that area as well.
It’s not the personal touch of those tornadoes, however, that makes me intrigued. It’s how little we know, how little we understand about that variety of storm’s volatile nature. I want to investigate it, study it, touch it, in a way, and try to make sense of it. Now, however—when I have so much at stake and two individuals I am directly responsible for—I don’t want to see it up close. I don’t want to experience it in the way I once did. And I feel sorry for those who have had to experience these storms.
I’m like the robin in our willow tree; on guard, defensive. I am watching over my nest and my brood, and despite the fact that storms will continue to roll through in Oz, I will make sure that my back is up against something sturdy, that I maintain my vigilance, that I thank our lucky stars every time the storm bypasses us, and I that I send thoughts and prayers to those who are affected.
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