I was very young at the time, but I still remember the first tornado I experienced. We lived in the country, on the outer southern edge of town.
It was an overcast Spring day, cool and damp, the threat of rain imminent. Mom and Dad had gone bowling. Mom would have taken along her bowling set: powder blue shoes, matching bag, and matching bowling ball. Grandmother was visiting from Texas, so she stayed with us. Fearful of the upcoming storms (Grandma was fearful of almost everything), she parked her week-old Dodge Pioneer in the garage. It was a white car. The seat covers may or may not have been plaid.
It didn’t occur to us at the time, but this was around the same time the City of Tulsa, Oklahoma buried a brand new Plymouth Belvedere in the ground, to be dug up 50 years later at the Centennial celebration. With much fanfare and in the presence of that day’s dignitaries, the car was placed in a cement vault with 10 gallons of gasoline in the trunk. The City planned to take it out at the appointed time, fill up the tank, and drive it away, honking and waving at the people of the future, who were probably hovering over the ground in jet-propelled scooters with radio-controlled helmets.
Throughout the evening, Grandma silently walked from window to window to door, anxiously studying the sky. On occasion she would walk out to the yard, ordering us to stay inside…
