sketch by Andy Chase Cundiff

It’s a tornado! No, wait, it’s a tree branch!

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For the record, tornadoes and I don’t get along. We both tend to go our separate ways, and I’d like to keep it that way. With the exception of the first three years of my life, I’ve lived in some locale of the infamous tornado alley. And do you know how many tornadoes I’ve ever seen in basically a half-century?

Three, all from a safe distance. That’s it.

How many tornadoes have I thought I was going to see?

About 247, and every last one would come blasting at me with nothing I could do about it.

Tornadoes are deadly, dangerous and scary. Nothing quite puts panic with a capital “P” in someone like a siren blaring and the storm clouds hidden. Knock, knock, knock on wood, but I’ve just been fortunate, lucky, or in the right place at the right time. But you would think the law of averages would have caught up with me by now with about a month to go in yet another tornado season.

The first and most memorable tornado was way back in 1968. There had been a rash of them in the Panhandle that year, and we had grilled my sister, who was four, what a tornado was and that they were no good. Then one afternoon, my mom, sister and I were working in the backyard.

“Mama, what’s that?” asked my sister.

What it was was a big ol’ tornado, spinning in open country between Groom and White Deer. That’s when, even at 10, I instinctively learned the concept of “every man for himself.” I threw down the shears and high-tailed it three doors down to the Kuehler’s, leaving my running mother and crying sister way behind.

The Kuehlers were the designated storm sanctuary. They had a basement. We never saw the basement, mind you, since everyone stood in front of their garage waiting for the killer F5 to approach before heading down for cover. But it was a spring/summer storm tradition for the neighbors to wait in front of the Kuehler’s for impending doom – all, except, of course, my dad.

It would be about 9 p.m. The sirens would be on, wind would be howling, and on the TV, you could hear a scratchy voice from someone that sounded 90 years old from the Amarillo bureau of the National Weather Service: “A tornado warning is in effect for Carson County and northern Donley County until 10:15 p.m. A tornado was sighted on the ground…”

And there would be my dad in his overalls, sitting in his easy chair watching the weather, balancing a late supper on his lap with the cat. My mother would be yelling at him to come on to the Kuehler’s, and I had already hauled my scrawny butt across the Britten’s front yard thinking they were going to find that fool in some rubble somewhere with spaghetti sauce all over him.

Then, one awful time, while all of us were watching the skies in the driveway in front of the Kuehler’s, I saw the solitary figure of my dad walking toward their house. My God, we were all dead. If he were actually coming over, it was Armageddon. But, once again, nothing.

I’ve been on a tractor many times growing up, watching storm clouds boil and just waiting for that tornado to dip down. My dad was in the pickup somewhere safe, so I was either going to have to outrun a tornado at 25 mph in a tractor or find a good bar ditch somewhere. But never a tornado.

It seemed like there were more tornado scares back in those days than now. And half the watches and warnings lasted until 2 a.m., which was the worst. My family would be sawing logs and I was wide awake, knowing my little town was about to be obliterated. It’s terrifying to know that Channel 7 weatherman Len Slesick would be the last face I’d ever see.

Using all the courage I could muster, I would peek through the bedroom curtains and look in the distance. Waiting for lightning to flash, I knew I’d see some monster funnel forming only a couple of miles away. Half the time, those funnels were tree branches, but it still caused the heart to skip a beat.

On those really bad nights, I’d sleep in my jeans because deadly tornado or not, I wasn’t about to run over to the Kuehler’s at 1 a.m. in nothing but my Sears Towncraft underwear. And those few precious seconds hunting for my jeans could make a difference.

There have been more than a few close calls and I feel for those who’ve actually been in one. Hope you don’t mind if we don’t have any shared experiences.

by Jon Mark Beilue

Jon Mark Beilue is a Globe-News columnist. He can be reached at jon.beilue@amarillo.com or (806) 345-3318.