×

The all clear

Tornadoes. That’s what prompted worry when I was a kid. Big, mean, Wizard-of-Oz-style monsters that dropped from the sky to rip roofs from houses, tear barns from foundations, and send cars and cows across the county. To prepare for this, our teachers conducted pop-quiz tornado drills which caused us to huddle in safety zones. Ours was the storage room next to the gym.

On one thunderstormy day, I was tucked into the far corner, wedged between two classmates with a mess of green-and-white jump ropes hanging from the wall behind me. Some kids joked and messed around just like they did for everything else. Weird noises, goofy voices, never able to keep their hands to themselves. While the teacher shushed, scolded, and separated them, the rest of us followed her instructions blindly. Not because we weren’t smart, thoughtful kids with minds of our own, but because in a situation like this it was important to do what the adults said. Our lives depended on it. I tucked my face between my knees and covered the back of my head with my skinny arms. “It’s Alpena,” I told myself. “Stuff like this doesn’t happen here.”

Still, I worried. Was it really a drill or were they only keeping us calm in the midst of imminent doom? Was a tornado churning through the field across the road making its way toward the school? Were my parents crammed into the crawl space of our house, or did they make it to the neighbor’s root cellar? What about my dog? Our rabbits? My Hot Wheels collection, my football cards, and my stack of Sports Illustrated magazines? Deep down, I knew my chances of being sucked up into a tornado were slim, but anything was possible.

My world was riddled with minor devastations on a daily basis, but I wasn’t sure I would emerge in a post-tornadic world fully intact. Losing at marbles. I could handle that. It was hard parting with my peeries, cat-eyes, and steelies, but I knew that the next day’s recess was an opportunity to win them back. Getting bullied and shoved around? I could handle that, too. In fact, whenever I was tripped, or pushed, or called names, I always felt sorry for the bullies. I knew they were sad and angry and that they came from rough homes where parents drank too much, cared too little, and blamed everyone else for their problems. A tornado though? That was a different story. If God’s great test was to send a doozy that busted up the windows and blocks and mortar of our school, there was nothing I could do. I was stuck. A little kid in a dark room waiting for whatever’s next. Howling winds and breaking glass, screams, and crying, or those two wonderful words — all clear.

Thirty-five years later, it’s not a tornado my kids are prepping for, it’s an active shooter. While the odds of this happening are still quite slim, anything is possible. We were reminded of this last week when our schools went on lockdown. Someone, possibly with a gun, was reported to be near Ella White School. Not the kind of thing you want to hear, ever. Unsure of whether it was a rumor, a fact, a miscommunication, I waited for as long as I could, then hopped into my car. I knew I had to stay away from the immediate area, that law enforcement would do their job, but I wanted to be closer to my little girl. Even if I was still two miles away and there was nothing I could do, I was closer, and it made me feel better. I hoped that if she was huddled together with scared friends in a dark room that she was calm and confident. That some kids were making goofy noises and talking in funny voices, and that if she was worried, it was about her toys, her dog, her collection of snow globes and shoes. Not her life.

I drove up and down side streets looking for anything suspicious. Mainly, some nut with a gun. I didn’t expect to see such a person, and I’m not sure what I would have done if I had. Most of my time driving was spent thinking, trying to comprehend why our kids must worry about things like this at all. That’s when I remembered the tornado drills. That helpless feeling of knowing that when conditions are just right, horrible, awful things manifest themselves to carry out great destruction. And sometimes, there’s nothing you can do, but wait and wait for those two words — all clear — so you can watch your daughter skip out of school with her friends, smiling and laughing. Just another day of being eight and happy. And when she’s close, you scoop her up into your arms.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” she asks.

“Nothing’s wrong, honey.”

“But your eyes are all watery.”

“It’s just because I’m so happy to see you,” I say.

And I hold her as close as I can for as long as she’ll let me.

Newsletter

Today's breaking news and more in your inbox

I'm interested in (please check all that apply)
Are you a paying subscriber to the newspaper? *
   

Starting at $4.62/week.

Subscribe Today