Starts with K
Apparently if you live long enough, you can relate to just about everything that happens around you.
The latest evidence of this happened late last week, when a cold front blew – and I mean blew – through the area, sparking a pair of EF2 tornadoes in Olmsted County.
I sat at work, listening to the scanner, as tornado watches and warnings were issued all over southeastern Minnesota. At one point, I picked up my camera, thinking I’d do a little storm-chasing.
I didn’t go, mainly because a senator was coming to town, and I needed to speak to her – preferably not from a ditch somewhere as debris rained down.
It’s something I’ve experienced before, and while it has definitely added to my life experiences quilt, it isn’t worth a repeat.
It was the day before my 17th birthday, and three friends and I were at a softball game, watching a fourth friend play.
The sky got very dark; the game was called as lightning began to flash.
The five of us piled into my friend Brenda’s nearly-new Chevette as the skies opened and the rain pounded down.
“Let’s just drag Main,” somebody said, as the sky grew ever more ominous. It was me. I wanted to drag Main, because what else do you do at 7 p.m. on a Thursday the day before your birthday?
My friend Sue, the ballplayer, wanted to go home and change, so we dropped her off a few blocks later.
As she slammed the car door, the tornado siren in town began to blare.
My friend Marci began to gasp, then cry. She begged Brenda to take her home, too, but Brenda – also crying – ignored her and drove straight to her own home.
During the entirety of the seven-block drive, I scoffed at their fear while reciting old wives’ tales that had zero basis in fact. They all ignored me.
As we pulled around the corner toward Brenda’s house, her parents, like all good Midwesterners, stood in their driveway. We screeched to a stop, piled out of the car and joined them.
As we looked northwest, a huge funnel cloud, with a smaller one on either side, appeared less than a mile away.
Nobody said a word.
Then Dick, Brenda’s dad, said the first four words I’d ever heard him utter: “Get to the basement.”
We did – though I still didn’t believe anything would happen. Can you imagine the audacity? Seeing an actual tornado and saying to your friends, “it won’t cross the river. Tornadoes hit water, then follow it.”
Untrue, as we found out.
In the basement, I stood near the east-facing window. My ears plugged, and it was really, really loud. That train comparison? True, as we found out.
I looked out the window, where I saw trees, bicycles, boards, animals fly past – and Brenda’s house began to shake.
Less than two minutes later, all was still, eerily so.
We walked up the basement steps and opened the still-closed door to … nothing. The house was gone, leaving just the basement, still covered by the floor of the first story.
We all stood in the driveway, looking at complete devastation around us.
Brenda, who had cried the entire time we were in the basement, started to laugh.
“Look at my prom dress!”
It was wrapped around the antenna of her nearly-new Chevette, which was now on its side in the middle of the street. Power lines crackled all around us; debris was everywhere.
It remains one of the most surreal experiences of my life.
For years, we were told it was an F4; I see now it’s being called an EF3.
Two people died that day – one of them my first-grade teacher. Dozens were injured, including Brenda’s sister, who lived a block away. Their house collapsed into their basement, crushing her legs.
My sixth-grade history teacher died of a heart attack during the subsequent cleanup.
Brenda’s home was one of more than 100 that were destroyed; 20 businesses were leveled.
My family’s house – Marci’s, too – was untouched. We were all stunned, but unhurt.
The people of Olmsted County were also incredibly lucky: No fatalities, no injuries.
But like me, I suspect they all have a new appreciation for the power of nature – and a complete distrust of old wives’ tales.