I’ve chased tornadoes. I’ve just never caught one. Maybe – since I’ve been close enough – it might be more accurate to say that the tornado never caught me. At that close range, the twister is the boss of me.

They should have an EF-scale for stupidity. A couple of my encounters would have rated pretty high on that one. Early on, I was at the age when bad things always happened to other people. The Extreme-Superman-Complex of youth, some would say. I’d say, I was young and extremely lucky.

All the pictures from the latest Moore disaster have brought those long-ago memories rushing back, all the destruction, confusion, and tales of survival. I don’t believe twisters have grown milder these days. Looking at the pictures, I’m inclined to agree with those who are calling anyone’s survival in the Moore twister’s path, a – miracle.

Would you expect to live if someone asked you to hide in your house while a crane and wrecking ball smashed it to the ground? Maybe you’re an optimist. Most people wouldn’t expect a positive outcome, but that’s what happened in Moore.

That twister of coffee beans called Starbucks first called their coffee sizes Short, Tall, and Grande. The National Weather Service first described storm-sizes on an F-scale: F-0 to F-5, which is pretty much the same as today’s EF-scale. The difference? Wind speed, for one thing. Under the earlier scale, the biggest storm had to have winds over 260 MPH. Now, 200+ is enough for an EF-5 designation.

Under the new rules, it would have been the biggest of all classified storms that passed just to our south on that day, and then steadily moved closer before graciously moving away. A photographer and I drove over at first light.

That evening – in 1979 – while my wife and newborn son were hunkered down in the hallway closet, the twister touched down far enough to the east that our home was spared. I was on the other side of the path. People died in between us, some having taken shelter behind what had been solid brick and mortar walls.

It turns out, we were probably a lot safer that evening than the lunchtime I sat in my car, innocently parked beside the bank’s pneumatic drive-through. It was midday and weirdly stormy. I was making the morning deposit. There were scary-clouds above with a little bit o’ rain that suddenly began coming down in strong sheets. I was waiting for the deposit slip to return in that little canister when my car began humping the parking lot. I don’t remember any side-to-side movement, just the car jumping up and down on the shocks trying to leave the ground like it was some kind of California low-rider on steroids. Suddenly, the air-violence was over.

Driving back to the store, I had to dodge debris along South Peoria. Along the short route, there were people outside their businesses – located just down the street from mine – looking over roofing on the ground, downed store-signs, and wind-blown debris that had settled everywhere.

At some point, years later, when I unwrapped that media-provided, reporter’s-super-protection-cloak that I had used for such a long time – at the point that I became a regular citizen – the sound of the tornado siren was completely different.

One evening, it was shortly after the main rush hour. There was still enough reporter in me that I recognized the sky. Tornado. It was summertime and the air conditioner was on, but I rolled down the window to sniff the air. It was the aroma of disaster.

Before I reached my turn at 31st Street, with the window still down I heard the beginning wails of the tornado sirens. I had no photographer with me. No assignment. No reason to be on the road except to head home. Something new was welling up inside me, looking up, smelling the air, hearing the sirens. I would never admit it, but it might have been – fear.

What can you do when you find yourself at risk? When the attack comes from above the trees or over the rise, where do you find safety? After a lifetime of telling others how to survive the onslaught, I don’t think I remembered any of it. I just wanted to be in the house, where Extreme-Superman could sit down in front of the television and watch the coverage, and the radars, and the storm-track.

Another blog that has run too long. Apologies.

The same sort of place that belied shelter for residents of Moore. Still, they survived, but for those few. Those in the path of that monster were a lot less naïve than I am. I have not shaken my foolish early ways. That reporter’s protection. The lie.

They took precautions based on training. The sort of thing I used to sell, when I was in the media. Find the bathtubs. A closet. Yank a mattress from the beds and use it for protection. Find inner rooms, storm shelters. Above all – storm shelters.

Watching all the storm coverage on television, and recalling how closely it parallels what I saw in Wichita Falls, Texas that morning after, I’m remembering foolish and hoping for wiser. I’m thinking of my grandchildren and family, and the wisdom of their father and mother to incorporate a safe-room in their newly-built home.

I probably would have bought a new car with the money it cost them. Then I would have trusted to circumstances. Circumstances as they intersected with violent storms. And me, being a Superman and all that.

Those after-storm clouds? I saw them pass over the bookstore later that evening. The same type I saw back in 1979. My reaction was strong enough the other night that I wanted to point a camera to the sky and take a picture of them. I did. It just wasn’t the same. Without the violence, the clouds were little more than interesting. Pointing my camera upward, I wanted to be a reporter again, and being confident in my profession also secure my safety. Maybe continue the Superman-myth for a little while longer.

Too late for that, I think. I’ve been watching the television and hearing those same interviews that I conducted so many years ago. Survival stories. The news-anchor may have put it best: There are incredible stories everywhere we turn. Folks are smarter, these days.

Newborn birds know instinctively how to jump into flight from the nest. Oklahomans know instinctively how to fly into one.

I’m learning. But – at my (advancing) age – I’ve still never ridden out a storm in a safe location. I hope to learn from the valiant lessons demonstrated by my fellow state’s residents, enough to make some sensible decisions at my next opportunity.

Keep safe, then come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main St., Broken Arrow OK