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.

My wife wants to go see United 93. I do not. She’s okay with this, but I hate it that she’s not going because of me. If anyone out there want to take her, I’ll thank you and pay your way.

For those of you that have been living in a cave since 2001, United 93 is the new movie/docudrama based upon the events of United Flight 93. This plane, along with its passengers and crew, met its end in a Pennsylvania field during the horrific events of September 11, 2001.

Everything I’ve heard about the movie speaks to its accuracy and sensitivity. No “name” stars are on board for the production, as the filmmakers felt that famous stars would distract from the events themselves. Many of the characters, such as the air controllers, are played by the actual people that were involved in the events of that day. Although most of the on-board events are mainly conjecture, the character profiles were built with the consent and assistance of family members, so this may be the closest we’ll ever get to what actually happened.

So why do I not want to go? I could cop out and say, “It’s too soon” or “I don’t think it’s appropriate to entertain from tragedy” and I would be partly right. However, these simple pat answers fail when I really think about them. I’m always complaining that we, as a country, dwell too long and hard on our tragedies, so “it’s too soon” would make me a hypocrite. Likewise, I like watching movies about past disasters, like Titanic and Gettysburg, so I clearly don’t have a problem with dramatizing tragedy.

If I dig down really deep, I’ll admit that I’m afraid to go.

I’m one of those people that really, really gets into his movies. I get a cathartic thrill from stepping into the shoes of Indiana Jones or James Bond. In The Sixth Sense, I’m cowering in the dark with Haley Joel Osment as he attempts to communicate with one of the ghosts that have been haunting him. I’m laughing out loud along with Robin Williams as he re-learns to fly in Hook.

Because of this, I tend to “buy in” to movies wholesale. I willingly suspend disbelief and go along for the ride, head first.

I know that the Titanic met its end on the point of an iceberg, but while I watch the movie, I forget all of that. In that fateful scene where the pilot frantically backed the engines and turned the wheel, something in me was hoping that the ship would miss the iceberg. In fact, I was grabbing my seat and frantically pulling to the left (excuse me, the port) hoping I could somehow influence the ship’s course. When the ship hit the iceberg, part of me was not surprised. The rest of me was bitterly surprised and disappointed.

I knew that Pickett’s Charge failed at the Battle of Gettysberg, and yet I tensely awaiting the outcome of that same charge on the silver screen, hoping that those brave soldiers would beat the odds, survive the hellish hail of musket balls and cannon fire and emerge victorious (and I don’t even like the Confederacy!) When the charge failed, I felt the pain of defeat like it happened yesterday.

I’m afraid that something like that will happen in United 93. I’ll be hoping that the hijackers get caught at the gate. That the planes on their way to New York and Washington will miss their targets. That those passengers will make it through the cockpit door, and that they’ll land the plane in one piece.

But I know this ending all too well, and not from a history book. Like many of my countrymen, I lived September 11 as it happened. It’s over and done, we buried our dead, healed our living, and exacted our revenge on those that dared to make it happen. I don’t think I could stand to play “what if” with this particular event.

“It’s too soon” doesn’t really cover it. Maybe I should say, “It will always be too soon.”

Silence for the dead, prayers for the living, and hope for the future.

A couple of nights ago, I was the victim… er, I mean the subject of a sleep study. It seems that I might be suffering from that modern-day male malady known as sleep apnea.

My journey to the sleep lab began with a rather insistent plea from my wife, who was becoming concerned at my new-found ability to suspend breathing for upwards of a minute at a time. Normally, this would not be cause for alarm, but I was doing this in my sleep. Considering that my snoring has been likened to the braying of a grizzly bear in the throes of indigestion, you would think that occasional bouts of nighttime silence would be welcome. Nonetheless, her panicked pronouncements of, “Oh, my God, you’re not breathing!” finally convinced me to visit the family doctor.

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If you’re ever hard up for something to write in your next blog entry, I have an excellent suggestion: Walk into the middle of an armed robbery.

Last night, I was driving home from a dinner party when I had a sudden urge for a Diet Coke. I pulled into the local Circle K (Kwick Stop, Quick Mart, whatever the heck they’re calling it this week) and told my wife and son to wait in the truck.

Nothing much was going on inside — a rather harried-looking female clerk was at the counter, assisting a man who was blowing his nose into a very large red bandana. The man turned to me and calmly ordered me to lie down on the floor, and punctuated this simple request with a rather large handgun. Obviously, this man did not have a cold.

I suddenly became very interested in the state and composition of the tiling underneath my feet.

The rest of the affair took less than a minute. There was the expected demand of “gimme the money” followed by the sound of a register drawer being emptied into a bag. The fellow then walked directly past me and out of the store, while I did my best impersonation of the most harmless, least threatening person on the entire planet.

While I was lying there trying to become one with the tile, I was surprised at how calmly I was reacting to the entire incident. Although my heart was skipping more than a few beats, I wasn’t screaming, crying, or losing control of voluntary muscles. In fact, the primary thought running through my head was, “Man, it would really suck if I got shot in front of my family over a Diet Coke.” My real concern was for my family, but I need not have worried. They reacted to my sudden interest in prone activities by diving for the floorboards of the truck and dialing 911.

I’ve heard that people involved in moments of crisis often have the surreal feeling of “this isn’t really happening.” I won’t say that I was in total denial, but I did have this sense that I was part of a carefully-prepared script. He was the robber, she was the clerk, and I was the bystander. None of us, as far as I could tell, were angry, on methamphetamine, or a black belt waiting for a chance to be Chuck Norris. He came, he took, he left, and then all hell broke loose as police officers from three municipalities came storming in the front door.

The only thing missing was the “Bad Boys” soundtrack.

I gave the police the best description I could — man with slight build, about 5 foot 7 inches in height, black, wearing a navy blue cloth jacket in either a hoodie or athletic style, black bandana on head tied in a tight “doo-rag” style, carrying a red bandana that looked like something John Wayne would tie around his neck, and wearing soft-soled shoes (judging from the sound he made as he stepped over my head). Didn’t see his whole face, didn’t read the logo on his shirt, didn’t see what shoes he had. Yep, not much to go on.

Oh, and he had a large, Colt 1911A2-style semi-automatic handgun in .45 ACP with a nickel-plate finish and a full underlug. Having a gun pointed at you can really focus your memory.

I’m not sure if they caught the guy. He left the store on foot, leaving behind a cloth bandana (ironically, one with $100 bills printed all over it). Judging from the five police cars, one police helicopter, and one K-9 unit scouring the neighborhood, my new acquaintance was not going to have an easy night.

As I was driving home, I complained to my wife that it wasn’t fair; she’s the one that works at a bank, so I’ve always assumed that she would be the first one to experience a real American armed robbery. She didn’t think I was funny, and neither did my son. I guess I was being a little callous — they had to watch the whole thing, helplessly, wondering if I was going to walk out alive.

Melodrama aside, we learned a thing or two about how important we are to each other. I also learned a thing or two about myself. I tend to panic when my checkbook doesn’t balance or when a computer crashes at work. It’s good to know that when my life is threatened, I’m as cool as a cucumber. Granted, I would rather have not learned this at all, but I’ll take what I can get.

I’m just peeved that I didn’t ever get my Diet Coke.

From Sci-Fi Wire:

Andreas Katsulas, the character actor known to SF fans as G’Kar on Babylon 5 and a familiar face from Star Trek and other SF&F TV shows, died Feb. 13 of lung cancer in Los Angeles, his agent, Donna Massetti, confirmed to SCI FI Wire. He was 59.

It’s not often that the passing of a television actor causes me to pause. Katsulas was something special in a genre that typically settles for mediocre actors and even more mundane scriptwriting. In the cult television series Babylon 5, one of the best science fiction stories ever to grace the small screen, he played the character of Ambassador G’Kar of the Narn Regime. Despite the encumbrance of heavy makeup, a rubber mask, and garish red contact lenses, Katsulas managed to convey a forceful passion and eloquence of thought that most actors could never hope to manage with their bare faces.

He was a true master in a medium that habitually hamstrings its best artists. Rest in peace, sir.

This sad news via Matt Deatherage.

Today is the 2oth anniversary of the loss of the Space Shuttle Challenger. From President Ronald Reagan’s speech, given just hours after the unfolding of the disaster:

Nineteen years ago, almost to the day, we lost three astronauts in a terrible accident on the ground. But we’ve never lost an astronaut in flight; we’ve never had a tragedy like this. And perhaps we’ve forgotten the courage it took for the crew of the shuttle; but they, the Challenger Seven, were aware of the dangers, but overcame them and did their jobs brilliantly. We mourn seven heroes: Michael Smith, Dick Scobee, Judith Resnik, Ronald McNair, Ellison Onizuka, Gregory Jarvis, and Christa McAuliffe. We mourn their loss as a nation together.

We’ve grown used to wonders in this century. It’s hard to dazzle us. But for 25 years the United States space program has been doing just that. We’ve grown used to the idea of space, and perhaps we forget that we’ve only just begun. We’re still pioneers. They, the members of the Challenger crew, were pioneers.

I was 21 years old when the Challenger was destroyed in a ball of flame and superheated liquid oxygen, taking with the the lives of seven astronauts, the dreams of a nation, and the hopes of a people who desperately wanted to walk among the stars.

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