FIRST TORNADO

Okay. So I come from Earthquake Country and that scares the beejesus out of anybody who’s never been in an earthquake. It’s like the Apocalypse and the Four Horsemen Come to Git Ya. Out-of staters think the earth cracks open like the Grand Canyon and small children and cherished pets are never seen again. Whole towns disappear and fall into the ocean. Well, that hasn’t happened yet although people have been squashed under bridges, and as they lay dying, ne’er-do-wells ransack their cars and take their wallets and anything else of value. Mostly, though, earthquakes just rattle things up a bit; a few cans get knocked off of shelves in the grocery stores; some windows get broken and people’s nerves are shot for a few hours. The thing is: They come without warning. There are no earthquake sirens. No high-tech tracking on the television stations; no Pete Thompson telling you when to head for the basement if you have one. Just slam. All of a sudden your feet go out from under you and it’s over before you’ve even figured out what it was. The real blockbusters only happen every 10-20 years and the death tolls and injuries are minimal compared to other natural disasters.

But tornados? Shut the hell up! They happen every year, several times per season. Talk about whole towns being blown away and small children and pets disappearing. They really do. How do you get used to having your roof blown off every year? So, I knew I had to prepare and prepare good.

First of all, what does one wear to a tornado? Will I be able to hear the sirens over the TV murder I’m usually watching on Lifetime or TNT and they don’t do up-to-the-minute warnings? Do I have a “safe room?” No. I have a bathroom with no window so that’s going to have to do even though it’s on an outside wall. What do I need to stock? How long will I be stuck in there? In bad earthquakes, the ones that usually happen in Peru and Pakistan, people are often trapped for hours and days. How will anyone know if I’m dead? Hard to tell some mornings. But I didn’t know anybody then and who would think to look for me?

And so, putting all of my bleached blonde faculties to work, I devised a plan. If I’m going to die in a tornado, let me go happily and in comfort. Keep it simple. In the linen closet I placed a bottle of Perrier, a corkscrew and a cheap California pinot noir. Oh, and some tennis shoes and a leash and some Milk Bones. Happily, the first couple of years, I had no need for the equipment and forgot about it as I went about the business of building my new life. By 2007, I wised up a little, having seen some pretty devastating stuff down here.

By then, I had put some low-lights in my hair and could think better. What if it happened here in Maumelle like it did in Dumas? I’ve got 20 trees in my back yard, mostly pine that crack like twigs in the wind and smash houses in half. I called out the tree guy and had him take down the one that loomed most precariously over my house; the one that would bisect my life, and left the others that would only demolish the kitchen on the north side or smash me flat in my bed on the south side. The decisions one makes in this life….Then I went to Circuit City and got conned into buying one of those crank-em-up weather radios. Feeling empowered, I stocked the bathroom with a comforter and pillows to cover my head if my dog and I had to cower in the bathtub, a crowbar and axe in case I had to bust my way out from under a bone-crushing pine tree, tuna, dog food, flashlight, peanut butter, a can opener, first aid kit, extra shampoo, canned ravioli. Being from Good Pioneer Stock on my father’s side, I was going to survive, by God. And intrepid explorers on my mother’s side. My Uncle Octave was on the Greely Expedition to the North Pole and the story goes that the survivors survived by eating up their traveling companions. Not being one to devour my neighbors for any reason whatsoever, I instead decided on the tuna and canned ravioli.

It was only a matter of time before a tornado sliced through Little Rock. Long-time residents gloried in regaling me with tales of tornados past that had taken out whole neighborhoods and Harvest Foods and sent cars flying across Main Street. Well, spring of 2008 seemed fairly tame to me until that night when I was visiting friends in Cammack Village. Something didn’t seem quite right. It was raining a little but the vibes in the air gave me what they call down here the willie-nillies. Californians are big on vibes and when you get one, you better act fast. I made a polite but speedy exit and headed across the bridge to Maumelle.

It was the most astonishing light show ever. Even San Francisco nightclubs of the 1960’s couldn’t compare. Miles-long, serrated bolts cracked the sky and splintered light on the river. I could hardly keep my eyes on the road but my hands stayed firm on the wheel to keep the winds from blowing my little Toyota into the roiling waters below. Get the hell home. It may be pretty but it’s dangerous and you are so in for it. Alone. You and your little dog, too.

Screeching into the garage, I went straight for the TV. The networks were ablaze with reports as the tornado ripped up from the southwest, through Bryant and Benton, then straight into Cammack Village where I was visiting not 15 minutes before. Cranking up the TV to full volume, I grabbed my beagle, Simon, who was sleeping on the forbidden sofa and ran for the bathroom. Yanking open the linen closet I pulled out the comforter and pillows (the wine was long gone) and threw them in the tub along with the dog. I grabbed the peanut butter and the crow bar from under the sink and along with my cell phone, leaped in the tub and slammed the door shut. Time to call my only child, Eyren Michaela, in Charleston and bid her farewell.

Having heard the reports on CNN, she was just about to call me. The vibes again.

“It’s five minutes from Maumelle. I’m a goner. I am so sorry I never bought you a Lite Brite and that I grounded you for using the F-word. I never taught you to pray. I never taught you how to handle money. I never taught you how to use power tools. Your cooking stinks and it’s all my fault. And I’m so sorry I yelled at you when I was trying to teach you to drive and ride a bike and for all the kites I couldn’t get to fly that crashed into the ground and made you cry.”

Simon was starting to squirm among the pillows, turning around and around, trying to nest. He was distracted by the open jar of peanut butter and licking it off my fingers, sticking his nose in the jar to get bigger portions. I wasn’t going to fight him. I’d share my last drop of peanut butter with the most loyal, true-blue man I’d ever known.

“Mama,” Eyren squeaked, “I can hardly understand you. Are you eating peanut butter again? You’re not going to die. You can’t. You haven’t bought me a Lite Brite yet and I still owe you a trip to Italy and you can’t die until we get there. And back.” She knows, most of the time, not to argue with me when I’m insane.

“Yes I am. I am so dead. And I never took the time to tell you how sorry I am.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Everything I ever did or didn’t do. I’m sorry I divorced your wretched father and that you never had a daddy. I’m sorry that your hair turned green when I tried to give it new life with a cheap box of hair color. I’m sorry I never taught you to pray. I’m sorry for all the times I made you eat fish and pork chops and that I read whole passages out of The Grapes of Wrath to make you feel guilty. I should have let you eat more French fries. The sirens are blaring! I hear trains coming! All hope is dead and so am I. They’ll find us in a few days. Decomposed, reeking of peanut butter. But at least I have on a cute outfit.”

By now, the dog was standing on his hind legs, pounding on the shower door to get out. My cell phone was blowing sky high as friends and family tried to reach me from both coasts.

“Vaya con Dios, my precious baby girl. I have never loved anyone as I have loved you. I’ll wait for you in our next life and we will be safe. You’ll have a daddy and never have to eat pork chops. It will be in Mexico or somewhere where it’s always warm and the breezes are gentle. Listen for me in whippoorwill songs. (I wouldn’t have known a whippoorwill if it landed on me with a business card). Feel my love when you look into the eyes of your first born child. I was never perfect but my love for you always was.

“Mama?”

The cell phone died. If you think this was maudlin, imagine the conversation if I had found that bottle of wine.

The TV, still at full volume, started giving reports that the tornado was bypassing Maumelle. With stiff knees from crouching in the tub, I cautiously slithered out and headed for the living room. The wind was subsiding and I watched in astonishment the amazing technology that tracked, to the block, what neighborhoods were still in danger of touch down. Mine was not in the mix. The house phone rang. It was my neighbor across the street, checking in on me. She comforted and reassured me that we were not in danger. She detailed the course tornados take from southwest to northeast. She laughed with me. Probably at me but was too refined to let me know. She told me I can always come to them. They were there for me. Always. Southerners to the bone. Just checking in on their neighbors. I’ll bake them a pie in the morning. It’s what Southerners do. Pie. Pah. No matter how you say it, its significance runs as deep as that river I cross each day. I won’t even use the ready-made crust. I’ll make it with my own hands and set it on my kitchen windowsill to cool. And when I take it to them the screen door will slam behind me, resounding the unmistakable protection of the Southern home.

I called my daughter from the house phone to tell her we survived. There was a lot of peanut butter involved but we were, indeed, alive and well. I didn’t put in the part about how I really wasn’t sorry I divorced her father or that if I had to I would read Steinbeck until her ears fell off if that would make her more grateful for all she had.

“You ever going to get me a Lite Brite? Oh, and by the way, Mama, your love is perfect. Sleep tight.”

Copyright 2008 by Judith Gardner