Saginaw, March 10, 2012, 2:30 a.m. Joe and I were asleep in our small 1870s brick farmhouse where we’d raised our two children, and where he still maintains his cardiology practice three days a week. Because he was covering Covenant Hospital this weekend I’d driven to Saginaw to be with him.
Wah! Wah! Wah! Our alarm shrieked, rudely signaling its switch to battery power. We shot out of bed and into a pitch-black world. Everyone in our area had lost electricity.
Uh-oh. Could another storm be approaching? A dangerous one had hit the Tri-City area at dinnertime. The Weather Channel had confirmed a tornado in the northern part of Saginaw, exactly where we lived. Massive lightning had continuously ripped the black sky: a 30-second mega-wind followed. Then – nothing. The main storm had roared by just two miles east of us. At bedtime the weather was calm.
It still was, now.
So, why had the power gone? Could a substation have been damaged earlier? Sleep was impossible, so we dressed and drove into town to Denny’s for coffee, and light, and remembered another terrifying Saginaw weather event 26 years ago.
August, 1986. The afternoon sky, in shades of yellow smeared with green and black, looked ill. An eerie quiet blanketed the three acres of wooded land surrounding our home. Birds and insects were mute.
Nervously we gathered our two young daughters and went inside. Ten-year-old Jen watched the sky upstairs while my husband monitored the TV. Five-year-old Lisa soothed our skittish puppy in the kitchen.
Suddenly - WIND. Large trees moaned. Windows rattled. County sirens wailed. Joe ran out, looked up and registered shock. Dashing inside he yelled, “Basement! NOW!”
We snatched up the children, grabbed the pup and rushed down.
Seconds later there were tremendous BOOMS!! Then, loud CRREEAKS! (Large trees were splitting, groaning, and falling.) One deafening CRACK!! (Lightning had struck the huge elm near the living room. The pungent stink of roasted sap lingered for days.) Then, THUMP! THUMP! over and over. (Chimney bricks were going… going… gone.) The wind screamed.
An eternity later, it was over.
The house had survived. But our vast green lawn had completely disappeared under a carpet of huge, flattened trees. What an incredible sight! Nobody said anything. We simply stared, blown away. Every downed tree tidily faced east, suggesting straight-line winds. Rain and dime-sized hail still pummeled shocked leaves. Weirdly, two giants close to our home had collapsed mere inches from it. Parallel to it. But, incredibly, not on it.
Some mortar-weak chimney bricks had been ‘shuck-plucked’ gone, like random kernels of corn pried off a cob.
I wish I had a nickel for every gawker who drove by for the next three weeks. We’d be rich. Sixty-one big trees were toppled that afternoon. It took five full days for a crew of ten men armed with chainsaws and tree-eating machines to clean up. Other people lost roofs: cars and sheds were overturned or crushed. We’d experienced an EF-1 tornado.
In 1953, when I was in elementary school, a twister dropped briefly into Saginaw and inhaled our apple tree along with various dish-y clutter from our dining room table, which it also tried to suck through the small, open window. That EF-5 monster roared on to flatten Flint. 113 people died.
Ten years ago, here at Sunnybank House in Traverse City, I hastily herded six garden visitors into the kitchen one biliously dark afternoon. Everyone watched a funnel cloud form - but not touch down - just south of us.
During this weirdly warm spring I’ve begun monitoring the weather at bedtime.
I’ve seen, first hand, how easy it is to be blown away.
Wah! Wah! Wah! Our alarm shrieked, rudely signaling its switch to battery power. We shot out of bed and into a pitch-black world. Everyone in our area had lost electricity.
Uh-oh. Could another storm be approaching? A dangerous one had hit the Tri-City area at dinnertime. The Weather Channel had confirmed a tornado in the northern part of Saginaw, exactly where we lived. Massive lightning had continuously ripped the black sky: a 30-second mega-wind followed. Then – nothing. The main storm had roared by just two miles east of us. At bedtime the weather was calm.
It still was, now.
So, why had the power gone? Could a substation have been damaged earlier? Sleep was impossible, so we dressed and drove into town to Denny’s for coffee, and light, and remembered another terrifying Saginaw weather event 26 years ago.
August, 1986. The afternoon sky, in shades of yellow smeared with green and black, looked ill. An eerie quiet blanketed the three acres of wooded land surrounding our home. Birds and insects were mute.
Nervously we gathered our two young daughters and went inside. Ten-year-old Jen watched the sky upstairs while my husband monitored the TV. Five-year-old Lisa soothed our skittish puppy in the kitchen.
Suddenly - WIND. Large trees moaned. Windows rattled. County sirens wailed. Joe ran out, looked up and registered shock. Dashing inside he yelled, “Basement! NOW!”
We snatched up the children, grabbed the pup and rushed down.
Seconds later there were tremendous BOOMS!! Then, loud CRREEAKS! (Large trees were splitting, groaning, and falling.) One deafening CRACK!! (Lightning had struck the huge elm near the living room. The pungent stink of roasted sap lingered for days.) Then, THUMP! THUMP! over and over. (Chimney bricks were going… going… gone.) The wind screamed.
An eternity later, it was over.
The house had survived. But our vast green lawn had completely disappeared under a carpet of huge, flattened trees. What an incredible sight! Nobody said anything. We simply stared, blown away. Every downed tree tidily faced east, suggesting straight-line winds. Rain and dime-sized hail still pummeled shocked leaves. Weirdly, two giants close to our home had collapsed mere inches from it. Parallel to it. But, incredibly, not on it.
Some mortar-weak chimney bricks had been ‘shuck-plucked’ gone, like random kernels of corn pried off a cob.
I wish I had a nickel for every gawker who drove by for the next three weeks. We’d be rich. Sixty-one big trees were toppled that afternoon. It took five full days for a crew of ten men armed with chainsaws and tree-eating machines to clean up. Other people lost roofs: cars and sheds were overturned or crushed. We’d experienced an EF-1 tornado.
In 1953, when I was in elementary school, a twister dropped briefly into Saginaw and inhaled our apple tree along with various dish-y clutter from our dining room table, which it also tried to suck through the small, open window. That EF-5 monster roared on to flatten Flint. 113 people died.
Ten years ago, here at Sunnybank House in Traverse City, I hastily herded six garden visitors into the kitchen one biliously dark afternoon. Everyone watched a funnel cloud form - but not touch down - just south of us.
During this weirdly warm spring I’ve begun monitoring the weather at bedtime.
I’ve seen, first hand, how easy it is to be blown away.