224/365 Sirens

I was asleep. I come out of sleep, still with an increasingly miserable head cold, and see Jake standing at the Jeffersonian door. Then it clicks what that awful sound is. The sirens are going off. It was unseasonably warm Sunday, with a cold front coming in. Perfect tornado breeding ground.

We listen to the Charlie Brown's teacher voice after the siren: "a....murrfurllo...awning...has...been..fissue...for the...seeveeah...St. Louis....may...felper...reeevallally."

Quiet follows. No rain or wind. I debate going back to sleep, but I tell Jake I'll go look at the radar on the computer.

It's coming, but mostly north, it seems. Our sirens go off if a surrounding county has a tornado warning. St. Louis County is shaped like a horseshoe around the city. The tornado could be many miles away and our sirens would go off. Better safe than sorry, but our siren is 50 yards from my bed so it's a little loud.

"Do you want to get the kids?" he asks.

"Not yet," I hedge. I lie back down. My mind drifts to a newspaper report on the 50th anniversary (I think it was 50) of the big tornado that hit St. Louis city and wiped out whole blocks of Delmar and took roofs off historical buildings in Lafayette Square. That one didn't hit in the spring--it was January or February and I can't get it out of my mind.

My daughters sleep under the eaves. In the attic. Below the roof.

The sirens go off again with the same incomprehensible message. I take a deep breath.

"Go get the girls," I tell Jake. "I'll meet you downstairs. At least to the living room."

We head down. I turn on NOAA weather radio in my kitchen, holding Billy who is still asleep. Jake is watching channel 5 with the perky blond meteorologist filling the dead air space with color commentary. The NOAA voice is clear and spooky and cuts through the nonsense. Take shelter now.

I look out the kitchen window at the lightning.

I walk to the front hall, look out the storm door at the street trees. Nothing yet.

And then it hits, from nowhere, here it is. Fiona's eyes are big and scared, but Daisy is asleep on top of Jake. They huddle on the couch and I come into the room to look at the radar. The storm is moving at 70 miles an hour. As fast as it arrives, it is gone. Rain, but the momentary hail and straight line wind is over. I point at our location on the radar screen. It's yellow now, not red. Time for bed.

Fifteen minutes later the siren goes off again. "The...oratio...awning...for the...ceeveeah...St. Louis...haba...canceled." I catch the last word just fine. I take a deep breath and go back to sleep.