In 1999, I was charged with chauffeuring Texas singer/songwriter Butch Hancock about Lincoln, Nebraska for a couple of days. As a graduate student, I had a research appointment at the Center for Great Plains Studies, and Hancock was in town as part of their annual conference, which that year focused the music. Part of the deal was that he visited several schools and talked to the kids, and since I also had a weekly radio show at the local community station, I was tagged as one of the liaisons from academia to the musicians who were in town for the occasion.
I chaperoned Hancock to four schools in all, including one that was based in the Lincoln Zoo. But encountering students who attended class amid a myriad of animals was not the most exotic experience for me during those couple of days. Rather, it was when we entered one high school and found all of the kids sitting on the floor in the hallway at 11:00 in the morning.
I was at a complete loss. But as a native of the Texas panhandle, Hancock just chuckled. He immediately knew what was going on.
It was a tornado drill. He’d grown up with them as well in the town of Lubbock.
The school sounds the alarm and all the kids move to the interior of the building, away from windows and exterior walls. It’s kind of like a fire drill, but you stay indoors.
Despite living in Nebraska for five years, I never encountered a tornado firsthand. That’s because Lincoln is at the far eastern edge of the infamous Tornado Alley, that north-south corridor in the southern and central Great 
The closest I came was one spring evening when something approximating a tornado struck. There was no actual funnel in downtown Lincoln where I lived, just winds reported in excess of 100 miles per hour out by the airport.
Living on the 8th floor of an old hotel that had been converted to apartments, I was young and full of piss and vinegar. I was also eager to experience the fury of Mother Nature, so I went outside to see for myself.
Most people of course did the sensible thing and stayed inside, but a few of us hearty souls braved the wind and the rain for a few minutes. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced.
We didn’t get the full blast because the side of the building shielded us to some degree. Around the corner was vicious. But even where we were, I had to lean hard into the wind to remain erect. I remember actually letting myself go at one point, throwing my full weight into the maelstrom, which was so strong that I didn’t fall down.
After a few exhilarating minutes, I went back inside and upstairs to my apartment, took off my soaking clothes, toweled myself off, and felt alive.
Almost a tornado, not quite. That’s as close as I’ve ever gotten, and it was a memory I’ll have the rest of my life.
I cannot even imagine the soul-clenching fear that must accompany a massive tornado like the one that ripped through southern Oklahoma City yesterday. The utter devastation speaks for itself. As one friend pointed out, it looks like Hiroshima after the atomic bomb.
Luckily, I bear no scars from my youthful dalliance with Mother Nature. But Oklahoma City, and particularly the suburb of Moore will never be the same after yesterday’s affair. Nearly two miles wide, the aerial typhoon obliterated everything in its path and the death toll will probably mount for days.
Alas, on days like this, our mortal coil draws breath from hers.
