Another Night in Tornado Alley

By Gordon Hopkins I lived in San Francisco, California, for about five years. In that time I experienced maybe a dozen earthquakes. I say “experienced” to mean I was aware of them when they happened. All were minor chandelier swingers, barely worth noticing. Eventually, I got so used to them I actually slept through at least one that I know of. I was a few years too late for the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989, which collapsed a section of the Bay bridge and killed 63 people. I remember people talked about it every time one of those minor tremblers hit. People still talk about it more than 35 years later. I remember it hit during the World Series. I seem to remember coverage of the game suddenly cutting off without explanation. I'm not sure if this memory is real. I'm not a sport fan and don't watch baseball. On the other hand, my mother also was not a baseball fan, yet for some reason she almost always watched the World Series. Maybe she was watching and I just happened to be there. Not that it matters. That's not the point. The point is, there was no warning. That is very different from last night here in Nebraska. Unlike earthquakes, there is usually a bit of warning before a tornado strikes. Not always, but more often than not. There are three things all Nebraska children are taught at a young age; never say anything bad about Tom Osborne, corn is king, and know the difference between a tornado watch and a tornado warning.I remember as a kid when a tornado watch would come on television. The whole family would gather in front of the tube and wait to see if and when the watch would turn into a warning.Once a warning was announced, the whole family headed to the basement. That is the whole family, which meant not just mom and dad and me and my little sister and my idiot brother. It also meant all four of our dogs, Smokey, Georgie, Blossom and Daisy. Dogs are family, too, after all.Unfortunately, the dogs didn't really like the basement. I didn't like it either but it was preferable to ending up in Oz. The dogs didn't understand this, so my dad and sister and I found ourselves rushing around the house, trying to scoop up three squirmy terriers and a really vicious Peekapoo, all the while my mom is hollering, “Hurry up! Hurry up. Get in the basement!” These days, I live with three cats. For whatever reason, all three of my cats follow me whenever I go into the basement. Especially Harper, the fat, black cat, because I feed him in the basement. I have to give him his food away from the other cats because otherwise, he will wolf down his dinner and then go after Archie's and Groucho's dinners. Anyway, when the warning hit last night, I headed to the basement with the cats in tow. I think I've mentioned before that, unlike a lot of other pets, none of my cats really freak out when a storm hits. Normally. However, when the wind carried a trash can across my back deck, which smashed it into my George Foreman Grill (which doesn't work anymore), which in turn slammed into the screen door, my cats became convinced Armageddon was upon us. All three were flying around the basement, screeching, while I was sitting in an old, musty-smelling recliner (that doesn't recline anymore), hoping the all-clear would sound before the batteries in my phone died. All told, I think the tornado warning lasted just about 15 minutes. When it was over, I headed upstairs. The cats, having calmed down, followed. I was happy to see my house was still standing. I was really happy to see my roof hadn't blown away. I recently spent over $20,000 of my insurance company's money for a new roof. I'm sure my insurance company is happy, too.

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