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Show Twisters . . . 3 "Furnace explosion planned," it says, "two o'clock today." Or maybe "Head-on collision with a Peterbilt truck. Washington and 4th Street." Or . . . "Tornado on Tuesday!" If people got notices like that in advance, it would save a lot of trouble and grief. It's those black surprises that get to you, those things people call "acts of God" because they have to blame someone. My all-time worst black-letter day was June 3 of last summer. There were no notices mailed out on that occasion, for sure. There were no indications at all. "Twenty percent probability of thunderstorms toward evening," was what the local weatherman said that morning. "So what's new?" Mom talked back to him, poking another spoonful of cereal in my baby brother's smiling mouth. To tell you the truth, the weather was the last thing on my mind. Arthur and I had big plans for that Tuesday. Crafts class first at my Aunt Goldie's place. A couple of hot burritos at Taco John's after. Later, a bike hike out to the Platte River and a swim at Mormon Island. According to my Grandpa Hatch, the best swimming in southcentral Nebraska exists right there where the big island separates the Platte. With school out for good, Arthur and I were planning to get in on some of it. Unless you count the long, cirrus clouds strung across the morning sky as my friend and I pedaled off to Aunt Goldie's, there were no warnings at all that day in June. None. |
