Sunday, November 18, 2007 | by nathan

Centennial, Part 5

Friday, November 16, 2007 marked the 100th anniversary of the statehood of Oklahoma. To commemorate the event I’m publishing a series of short essays about Oklahoma, its history, its people, its culture and today, its weather.

Part 5: Nature’s Fury or The Finger of God or some other overly-dramatic title

This photo of the May 3, 1999 F5 tornado was taken by my friend Judy.

May 3, 1999 was the night before my Hebrew final. I’d been taking the impossible ancient language for a year and, despite spending literally thousands of hours in the after-hours room in the Wake Forest library, never quite got the hang of it. I didn’t return to my room that night until about 11 p.m. When I signed on to Instant Messenger, I had a message from Summer:

"Is your family okay?"

"Haven’t talked to them in a few days. Why?"

"Have you not heard what happened to your beloved hometown?"

Within minutes I’d turned on the news and seen the whole thing: my hometown had been hit by an F5 tornado. After only three phone calls I made it through to my mom, who seemed calm but weary.

"It missed the house," she said, "but barely. The high school might be gone."

Here’s what happened:

My little brother had been getting ready to leave for a youth group meeting, but mom told him not to go at the last minute, because the weather was getting bad. They sat and watched for awhile, as Okies are prone to do during a tornado, as the tornado leveled Bridgeport. Usually even strong tornadoes aren’t on the ground more than a few miles, but this one had already traveled 15 miles or so from its touchdown near Chickasha.

Gary England, meanwhile, was having kittens. He was in full-on drama queen mode: "if you’re not underground, you’ll die."

After the tornado crossed I-44 and began heading into south Oklahoma City, mom and John did the smartest thing they could’ve, given the fact that mom’s house doesn’t have a basement: they got a mattress, pushed it into the closet on the first floor - away from any exterior walls - and huddled under it. As the tornado roared past, mom held her arms around John’s waist and the two of them waited.

Around 70 tornadoes touched down in Oklahoma, Kansas and Texas that night, the worst being the one that almost hit mom’s house. It hit, but did not destroy, my high school, its wind speeds in excess of 320 miles per hour as it was doing so. The National Weather Service has a fascinating map of each touchdown in the Oklahoma City area that night:

Graphic courtesy National Weather Service Weather Forecast Office in Norman, Okla.

As well as an aerial shot of the damage, the next day, showing the trench dug into the earth by the tornado:

Photo courtesy National Weather Service Weather Forecast Office in Norman, Okla.

I arrived home a week to the day after the disaster, though it may as well have been the next day. The morning after my arrival a body was discovered in the woods near our home. Nothing looked as if it had been cleaned up. We spent the next several weeks riding around town, delivering water and gloves to tired people digging through the remnants of their homes. Over 40 people died; hundreds were injured. You know what, though? I’ll be damned if the Walgreen’s that was leveled - to the ground - by the storm wasn’t rebuilt and open for business the day after I got home.

Okies learn not to be afraid of tornadoes; we know the safety rules like the back of our hand, because we grew up hearing and practicing them. You stay away from windows and exterior walls. Get into a basement or underground shelter if you have one; if not, go to a small room in the center part of your house, cover up with a heavy blanket or mattress if possible. Don’t hide under highway overpasses, and don’t try to outrun a tornado in your car. Do your best not to live in a trailer park.

We all grew up hearing and knowing this, and for the most part, we know there’s nothing to be afraid of. Tornados, when they do minimal damage and cause no injuries or fatalaties, can even be fascinating and thrilling. Shit, sometimes even when they do:

Centennial Project, Oklahoma