Where the wind comes sweeping down the plains

A year or so ago during one of many trips K and I have made to Pennsylvania, I was talking to one of K's cousins. I don't remember what we were talking about, but K's cousin asked me about tornadoes.

"I had a friend who was in Oklahoma once when there was a tornado warning," K's cousin told me. "He said when the sirens went off, everyone immediately went inside. He said you guys take those things really seriously."

I can't imagine the look I must have been giving K's cousin as I wondered (a) if his friend had dreamed the whole experience, (b) where all the people around him were really from, or (c) where his friend really was when this event took place. If he actually was awake, fully conscious and in Oklahoma, then everyone around him must have been from out of state as well.

The last thing an Oklahoman does when tornado sirens go off is go inside -- unless you're a kid and your parents make you. Anyone who's a teenager or older immediately goes outside, and for some reason, we all get on the phone to talk to people outside our neighborhoods -- sometimes even in other towns. I don't know why, but it's just what almost all of us do.

If you live in Oklahoma long enough, you're bound to learn a lot about tornadoes. It just happens. Eventually, you get to where you can look out the window and announce very confidently that it's "tornado weather." Step outside, and you can be even more certain when the air just has this certain smell and feel to it. It's not something we can explain; we can just tell.

My first real encounter with a tornado came when I was in the third grade (there were a few before then, but not quite as close a call). In one night, seven tornadoes ripped through my hometown. My cousin and her mom were in town visiting my grandparents from Oklahoma City, and my brother and I were at their house as well. Because my grandma is always paranoid about the weather, we had the news on TV so we could keep up with the radar. Suddenly the cable went out, and it got eerily quiet.

I thought the storm was over. My grandma and aunt knew otherwise. They ordered my cousin, brother and me to go to the bathroom in the center of the house and get in the bathtub. We did as we were told. My aunt and grandma ran in and out of the tiny bathroom, tossing pillows and blankets on top of us.

My brother was the unlucky one to be at the front of the tub, and for some reason that night, the faucet decided to drip. As we were struggling to breathe under the smothering weight of a household worth of extra blankets and pillows, my poor brother was having to endure the likes of Chinese water torture.

We could hear Grandma and my aunt calling back and forth to each other from the front and back doors of Grandma's house. The storm got louder again, so their voices did too so they could hear each other as they stood watch on each side of the house. While this was going on, the rotating funnel (it hadn't touched the ground yet) passed directly over the house. My aunt, who was at the back door, was nearly sucked out of the house when it passed. For a few seconds, between the storm and the shouts of my grandma and my aunt, it was pretty loud.

But just as quickly as the panic had started, it was quiet again. This time, the storm was really gone.

I have dozens of similar stories from the rest of my childhood in Oklahoma. In every one of those experiences, each time the tornado sirens went off, my parents would usher my brother and me into the spooky, this-thing-is-definitely-haunted basement of our 100-year-old home, and then they'd immediately run outside to watch for the storm. Every. Single. Time.

A few weeks back, when I had to take my car to the shop to get my "oil light" taken care of, I was giving my personal information to the man who was checking in my car at the garage. He commented on the area code for my cell phone number. "Is that Oklahoma?" he asked.

"Heck yeah it is!"

The man told me he'd lived in Oklahoma "in that town Garth Brooks is from" (it's called Yukon) for a few months. He said he was very happy to move back to Dallas. I bit my tongue. The man surprised me with his next statement: "I just couldn't get any sleep there!"

I was confused. He continued: "The tornado sirens went off almost every night!" He told me he remembered one night in particular when he was staying in a hotel and the sirens went off. Every person staying there that night had to cram into the lobby. They were all a little nervous about the fact the tornado sirens were blaring, and they had no idea what to do in such a situation.

"There was this one guy, though," the man at the garage told me, "who stayed outside in the parking lot the whole time just watching the storm!" He looked at me as though he was waiting for me to react in horror, even shock at the least.

I just smiled. "I guarantee you he was from Oklahoma!"