Play One on TV

May 3 has become a sort of informal “blog about tornadoes” day for most Oklahoma-based blogs. It’s no wonder, as that date marks the anniversary of the infamous 1999 Oklahoma Tornado Outbreak.

But this post won’t be about that storm, or that date. Instead, I chose to recycle another post from my old and dearly-departed blog. The storm described in this article does not match the intensity and destruction of the May 3 incident, but it hit much closer to home, both literally and figuratively.

I give you May 10, 2003.

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Okay, I’m getting seriously annoyed now. Yet another tornado passed through my hometown last night. This one had the temerity to actually pass over my house. That’s right - my definition of “near miss” has just been revised to a proximity of exactly zero miles. By the grace of God (or possibly His weather coordinator — good leaders must be able to delegate), this particular tornado decided to play a game of hopscotch across the city, touching down in some spots and leaping over others. My neighborhood was one of those “others,” apparently, so yet another bullet was dodged. As a result, my cleanup activity of the day was to replace a fence slat and pick up a handful of tree branches, while for others not a quarter-mile away the order of the day was calling in the services of a bulldozer.

I stayed at the window until the very last minute, watching with horrified awe as the clouds above danced their little dance of mayhem. Wind gusts were waving the trees around my property from 0 to 20 degrees, yet amazingly nothing was breaking, cracking, or otherwise falling on top of my roof. Then the winds really picked up, and the trees bent over to 20 degrees and stayed there. For those of you who have never been in a tornado, hurricane, or typhoon, here’s a free tip - perpetually leaning trees means it is time to leave. Now.

Our hidey-hole is in the bathroom. Our house lacks any rooms without an external wall, so the bathroom is the best option available. No, we don’t own a storm shelter, irony of ironies. My wife was stuffed in the hollow formerly occupied by a tilt-out clothes hamper (enabling her to hook arms around the foundation plumbing should it become necessary) and I was laying in the bottom of our bathtub with my son’s mattress on top of me. The radio buzzed with updated reports of specific touchdown locations, and the names of streets and intersections were zeroing in on my address with the accuracy of a MapQuest search.

Yet the situation did not fill me with the near-panic that has plagued me in past near-misses. Call it a twisted sense of materialism, but I was more worried about dealing with the hassles of fixing my broken stuff than the possibility that I could soon be taking flying lessons without benefit of an aircraft. While every groan of my house or every snap of a tree limb startled me into wincing and ducking, my chief thoughts were of my son, who was enjoying a sleepover at my parents’ house several miles away.

Although my parent’s house was somewhat near the projected path of the tornado, it was actually several miles north of the primary danger area. This still meant that they would need to be prudent and take “tornado precautions” (which is an Oklahoma code phrase for “huddle somewhere low with a radio and your dog”). In my parent’s house, the “precautions” consisted of hiding in an internal closet possessing reinforced walls.

Matt was accompanied on his sleepover by his two cousins. Matt is nine years old, and cousins Zachary and Jacob are six and two, respectively. It is this seniority that makes Matthew the “leader of the gang.” The two younger boys hang on Matt’s every word and follow his every action. Happily, Matt does not mind being the center of attention (nay, worship) where his cousins are concerned, and he takes great care to set a positive example for them whenever he can be bothered to remember not to climb tall trees, walk on furniture with his shoes on, or destroy supporting elements of the architecture.

I had spoken by telephone with my son just minutes before my flight to the bathtub. At the time, I knew the tornado had an excellent chance of striking my area, and only a fair-to-middling chance of striking my parent’s house. I had decided it would be best to keep Matt where he was, but I had to fight the irrational impulse to jump in my car and head over there at speeds great enough to induce sonic booms.

On the other end of the phone, I could hear a crying child (I guessed it was Jacob) and much confusion and moving of objects as my mother and brother cleared the way to the closet. Matt sounded pretty calm, but he has inherited his mother’s way of shutting down visibly and audibly when under stress, so I did what I could to reassure him.

“Matt, you okay?”

“Yep. Of course, if this tornado hits us on target, we’re gonna die. But that’s okay, because we wouldn’t feel it.” My son — The Existentialist.

“Matt, the tornado isn’t going to hit you, so don’t worry. Now, you’re going to have to hide in the closet, so you do what Uncle Mike and Grandma say, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy. I’ll do what they say. By the way, Jacob and Zachary are scared.”

I suspected that this meant that he was scared as well, but didn’t want to admit it. I decided to give him the same remedy to fear that has served me well all my life — I gave him a job to do. “Matt, your cousins need someone to help them. You’re the oldest boy there, so you’re responsible. You need to help keep them calm and tell them everything is okay. Can you do that for me, son?”

“You bet. I can be really good at that. Zachary listens to me. Well, most of the time.” His voice change slightly as he accepted this charge of responsibility. He somehow sounded bigger.

But beneath the bravado, I could still hear a scared nine-year-old. “Matt,” I said, very gently. “Are you scared, too? It’s okay to be scared.”

“Yes,” came his voice, a little boy once again. “But I’ll stay brave for Zachary and Jake.”

I began to feel guilty for making him accept such a huge responsibility. Heck, my biggest responsibility at age nine was to pick up my socks, and I blew that one out on a daily basis (and still do).

I looked at the weather map and my watch, considered the top speed of a Nissan Sentra under light load, and did the math in my head. I could just barely make it. “Matt, do you want me to come and get you? I’ll come take you home if you want.”

There was silence, and then I heard him say, “Daddy, if I leave, there won’t be anyone to take care of my cousins.” His voice wasn’t questioning, and it wasn’t wistful. It was determined — he had people who needed him. He had a job to do.

I think I blinked away some tears in my eyes as I told him goodbye and good luck. I was one proud poppa. As I lay there in the bathtub, clutching a mattress to my face and listening to radio voices as they relentless counted down the streets and avenues leading to my house, my soul was at rest. My boy would be okay.

Enter tornado, amid much fanfare and crashing of trees. Exit tornado. One more Oklahoma rite of passage completed!

When the family got together later that night (helping my brother-in-law assess damage to his business), my brother told me an interesting story. As they cowered in that small closet and listened to the wailing of storm sirens and roaring of the vortex, Matt led the family in a prayer. Led them in a prayer. He wasn’t asked to do it. He didn’t ask anyone’s permission. He said, “I think we should pray,” and then he did it. Despite his own fears and uncertainties, and the lack of the presence of his parents, my boy took care of his family.

I reflected on the reasons I choose to live in the cosmic shooting gallery that is Tornado Alley. Just about every parent in Oklahoma finds themselves thinking, at one time or another, whether or not it is a good idea to raise a child in a place where springtime serves as a harbinger of death and destruction, instead of in another part of the country where spring means life (or at least seasonal allergies).

Then I thought of the transformation that overtook my son when trial and tribulation knocked on the doors of his mind. Like any child, Matt is a product of his environment. While his mother and I do all we can to “bring him up right,” we can only do so much. As he grows, he will look to others for his life lessons; for encouragement; for validation. One must choose this community of others with careful consideration. For myself, I choose to stay here, in Oklahoma. The tornadoes may be a bloody nightmare, but they hone our community into a close-knit family, the likes of which will not be found anywhere else in America. I can think of no better group of teachers for my son.

Last night, I lived through a tornado. I would, without hesitation, live through a thousand more just like it, just to hear the voice I heard last night. For you see, I was not just speaking with my son. I was speaking with the man that he will someday become.