An autistic family weathers tornado warnings                                             From the Journal of Norma Johns

“This is Forrest Johns of the National Weather Center. There is a line of thunderstorms stretching from Mexico to Canada with winds gusts up to 200 miles an hour and softball sized hail.  This line of thunderstorms which could produce Category 5 tornadoes should be in our area now and last till the end of April.”  That’s not what he said but what we heard.  Having moved from an area with slight tornadic activity to an area right snap dab in the middle of it produced tremendous fear in us.  We had heard all the horror stories: babies snatched out of their mother’s arms; a broom straw driven though an electric pole; chickens found 30 miles away.  (And don’t forget the cow from the movie) A few months of hearing the weather reports convinced Mama and Daddy, we needed a storm cellar.  So we had a storm cellar constructed in their backyard just a few steps away from the house.  It had hardly been finished when we had a severe weather warning.  That was enough for Mama.  She called all her kids and grandkids for and wide, staying on the phone until every one was in the cellar scratching for breathing room.  Finally we heard the all clear for Topeka, Kansas which is where the warning was for, not Arkansas.  We had a few more days like that until Mama settled down.  She would call on Monday if there was to be bad weather later in the week.  We had to prepare for it.  So we begin to have tornado parties.  There would be lightning in the far distance on the other side of Poteau Mountain and Mama would call.  We would all rush over and go to our preestablished battle stations.  Mine was to get Junior up and into the cellar.  Barometric changes really sets off his autism and I was assigned to keep him from having a fit and killing us all in that close confined space.  So I made a game.  “Junior, you got to get up.  There’s a bad storm coming and we have to go to the cellar.”  All the while I was putting his clothes and shoes on.  I’d say, “Storm coming oooooo. Let’s put a blankie on your head.”  The cellar had a twin sized bed in it for Junior.  I’d managed to get him down without too much trouble.  I’d say, “Let’s put the kiver on you.”  You had to say kiver for cover ‘cause that’s what our Grandma would call her quilts.  We had a pitcher of tea and some cakes for him and if I followed that same routine, we would have a chance of no fits.  But alas, it was not to be.  Daddy had his blasted radio going full blast with the volume turned up as loud as it would go; Kim’s dogs and cats scratching and a barking; and if that was not enough, we had neighbors dropping in to see how we were gonna sit this circus down.  Junior blew, I blew, Mama blew, everyone was blowing up except Daddy and he had his radio up to his ears.  And then it happened. My dignified sister, Pauline, blew.  She and Daddy were fighting over the radio.  Pauline finally wrestled it away from Daddy, threw it on the floor and started jumping on it. A long paralyzed silence followed.  We filed out of the storm cellar; thankful that we had not killed each other and, yes, ready for the next time.  So Forrest Johns of the National Weather Center, “just stuff it.”