I was eleven, spring had arrived, and another severe storm approached my family's white ranch house in northeast Ohio.
"Get in the basement!" I remember various family members screaming in unison as the wind began bashing against the trees and bushes of our front yard.
We ran, we screamed, we hid, and the storm came and went with little more than a whimper.
Before I turned twelve, this made me happy.
Things have since changed.
Storm chasing-one of my dream jobs, though clearly not back before I realized that thunder wasn't the precursory rumble ushering in the end of the world, or that being struck by lightning was as likely as me striking the mega millions jackpot.
Now I love storms.
They just don't love me.
I've named northeast Ohio Tornado Killer.
No matter how excited the weathermen get as a severe storm rolls in, or how many little rotating circles they zoom into on their precious stop-light red, yellow, and green Doppler radar map, no tornadoes seemingly touch down in my corner northeastern Ohio.
Just last night, the night blackened in the shadow of an oncoming storm, and rotating circles began dotting the television screen as the local weatherman, sweaty from excitement, warned the viewing area of imminent danger.
My wife and I happened to be visiting my parent's house, the same place I grew up in and either hid from, or watched, storms.
I rushed to the garage for a better view just as the dark line of clouds finished blocking out the remainder of the evening sunlight, plunging the day into a deep, grey darkness.
It was beautiful.
My brother and sister soon tentatively (they are more scared of storms than I) joined my wife and I in the garage, and I began a monologue on the dangers of lightning.
My wife, taking me very seriously, bound into the driveway and did a lightning dance under a tree.
I reeled her back in just as the wind began to blow.
In the south, the clouds starting looking strange, bubbling down from the otherwise relatively flat ceiling of the approaching tempest.
I watched with awe.
"Get ready to run into the basement," I told the others, even as my brother informed me of wall clouds confirmed in nearby towns.
Apparently the weathermen had been doing lightning dances too.
This was going to be exciting.
The next fifteen minutes brought with it faster winds and darker skies.
I kept my eyes on those southern clouds, hoping I might see a funnel.
A moment later, all grew calm.
I mischievously convinced my sister that the Mesocyclone that would ultimately form the tornado must be sucking in all the air, slowing the wind, creating the "calm before the storm.
" She believed me and soon fled inside.
My wife scolded me.
But that "storm" never came.
Sure, it started raining, as always, but not much more than that.
After a half hour of waiting, I went inside.
A few minutes later, even the weathermen, as if nothing ever happened, returned the network TV channel to the regularly scheduled show.
Another storm, another disappointment.
I realize I'm a fool, and a wimpy storm is actually a blessing-especially after what I saw happened just a few days ago in Joplin Missouri, and a month ago in Tuscaloosa Alabama.
But ever since I grew out of my fear of storms, the idea of seeing a tornado haunts me.
It would be awesome to witness that whirling mass descend from a monstrous cumulonimbus cloud as the Mesocylone in the cloud's center meets with a downdraft and is thrust from the cloud to create an atmospheric whirlpool.
But I must pause, and ask myself, "sure it'd be cool, but what next?" The answer is obvious, I'd run to the basement and hide, quake, and pray it didn't hit me or my loved ones.
Those things are dangerous, but let's face it, they're also beautiful.
So for all you other delusional storm-chaser wannabees, until the next red mass on the radar slithers onto your local Dopplar, happy hunting!
"Get in the basement!" I remember various family members screaming in unison as the wind began bashing against the trees and bushes of our front yard.
We ran, we screamed, we hid, and the storm came and went with little more than a whimper.
Before I turned twelve, this made me happy.
Things have since changed.
Storm chasing-one of my dream jobs, though clearly not back before I realized that thunder wasn't the precursory rumble ushering in the end of the world, or that being struck by lightning was as likely as me striking the mega millions jackpot.
Now I love storms.
They just don't love me.
I've named northeast Ohio Tornado Killer.
No matter how excited the weathermen get as a severe storm rolls in, or how many little rotating circles they zoom into on their precious stop-light red, yellow, and green Doppler radar map, no tornadoes seemingly touch down in my corner northeastern Ohio.
Just last night, the night blackened in the shadow of an oncoming storm, and rotating circles began dotting the television screen as the local weatherman, sweaty from excitement, warned the viewing area of imminent danger.
My wife and I happened to be visiting my parent's house, the same place I grew up in and either hid from, or watched, storms.
I rushed to the garage for a better view just as the dark line of clouds finished blocking out the remainder of the evening sunlight, plunging the day into a deep, grey darkness.
It was beautiful.
My brother and sister soon tentatively (they are more scared of storms than I) joined my wife and I in the garage, and I began a monologue on the dangers of lightning.
My wife, taking me very seriously, bound into the driveway and did a lightning dance under a tree.
I reeled her back in just as the wind began to blow.
In the south, the clouds starting looking strange, bubbling down from the otherwise relatively flat ceiling of the approaching tempest.
I watched with awe.
"Get ready to run into the basement," I told the others, even as my brother informed me of wall clouds confirmed in nearby towns.
Apparently the weathermen had been doing lightning dances too.
This was going to be exciting.
The next fifteen minutes brought with it faster winds and darker skies.
I kept my eyes on those southern clouds, hoping I might see a funnel.
A moment later, all grew calm.
I mischievously convinced my sister that the Mesocyclone that would ultimately form the tornado must be sucking in all the air, slowing the wind, creating the "calm before the storm.
" She believed me and soon fled inside.
My wife scolded me.
But that "storm" never came.
Sure, it started raining, as always, but not much more than that.
After a half hour of waiting, I went inside.
A few minutes later, even the weathermen, as if nothing ever happened, returned the network TV channel to the regularly scheduled show.
Another storm, another disappointment.
I realize I'm a fool, and a wimpy storm is actually a blessing-especially after what I saw happened just a few days ago in Joplin Missouri, and a month ago in Tuscaloosa Alabama.
But ever since I grew out of my fear of storms, the idea of seeing a tornado haunts me.
It would be awesome to witness that whirling mass descend from a monstrous cumulonimbus cloud as the Mesocylone in the cloud's center meets with a downdraft and is thrust from the cloud to create an atmospheric whirlpool.
But I must pause, and ask myself, "sure it'd be cool, but what next?" The answer is obvious, I'd run to the basement and hide, quake, and pray it didn't hit me or my loved ones.
Those things are dangerous, but let's face it, they're also beautiful.
So for all you other delusional storm-chaser wannabees, until the next red mass on the radar slithers onto your local Dopplar, happy hunting!