What Stands in a Storm (42 page)

But the atmosphere was still restless. On Sunday, May 22, 2011, the small town of Joplin, Missouri, was obliterated by an EF5. The deadliest single tornado since record keeping began in the 1950s, it killed 158 people and injured more than a thousand.

In both storms, the warnings were excellent. But many people did nothing. Why? Social scientists found that many people had grown complacent and did not immediately take shelter after hearing a warning. Many first sought confirmation from another source—the news, a phone call, a look outside—actions that cost precious minutes and sometimes lives. Some people got the warnings and did nothing at all.

The false alarm rate (FAR)—the percentage of occasions when a warning is sounded and no tornado occurs—contributed to complacency. In one survey of Joplin residents, some people said they are “bombarded with [sirens] so often that we don't pay attention.”

These tragedies were catalysts to improving the warning system. To enhance public understanding, meteorologists added qualifying statements that better express uncertainty. They adopted stronger wording—phrases such as “catastrophic damage” and “well-built houses swept clear from their foundations”—to differentiate strong and violent tornadoes. Many National Weather Service offices have implemented dual-polarization (dual-pol) radar, which can better distinguish debris from precipitation. By helping meteorologists identify tornadoes with higher accuracy, dual-pol is expected to reduce false alarm rates considerably.

The Birmingham office of the National Weather Service scrutinized its warning process in an effort to reduce its False Alarm Rate, which at the time of the April 27, 2011, outbreak was around 80 percent
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—the same as the national average. Three years later, it was around 40 percent, according to Kevin Laws, chief scientist at the Birmingham NWS office.

Tornadoes are rare. Only a small fraction of thunderstorms produce them, and EF4 and EF5 tornadoes are exceptionally rare, accounting for less than 1 percent of all twisters. Only one EF5 is recorded in the United States in a typical year. In 2011 there were six. Four struck on April 27. Statistically, an event of this magnitude occurs only once or twice a generation. But it can, and will, happen again. And the next one might be bigger.

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. This number is an average FAR from October 2007 to March 2011; scientists considered April 2011 an “anomalously active month” and did not include it here.

This book came to be through a perfect storm of all the right people in my life.

My agent, Jim Hornfischer, coached, cheered, and prodded me to new heights with his singular blend of literary instinct, incisive edits, and uncoated honesty. For me, this was the perfect recipe. Senior editor Leslie Meredith championed this story and gently guided me through the terrifying first draft with wisdom and tact, then refined each sentence with laserlike precision. Associate editor Donna Loffredo weighed in during critical moments and helped us keep momentum.

I have been blessed with a first-class team of “editorial rabbis” who have mentored me throughout my career, and every single one of them is a lifeline I call on frequently. Ed Mullins, Don Noble, Kristi Ellis, and Bailey Thomson informed my undergrad and graduate years in J-school at the University of Alabama. Russ Mitchell groomed me as a cub reporter and advised every career change since. Mike Wilson has been my trusted friend and Jedi Master for more than a decade, and always, always makes time for my questions with thoughtful, prescient answers.
Helped me . . . he has.
Tanner Latham, who knows me better than I know myself, has never stopped believing in me and in the transcendent power of storytelling. George Getschow and the Mayborn tribe—especially the Archer City Class of 2014—made me realize, on the beer-soaked tailgate of a pickup truck lit by shooting stars, that I had finally found “my people.” Noah Bunn led me to Mayborn. Bob Shacochis asked the hard questions that made me think harder and aim higher. Julie Chapman and Eric Calonius laughed with me through my publishing faux pas. Book whisperer Joel Achenbach talked me through
the art of beginnings and endings, and taught me that humor and science are not mutually exclusive. My friend and UA colleague Dianne Bragg helped me see my blind spots, and saved me from myself. Rick Bragg—friend, confidant, and tone-poem coach—endured three years of my editing, wrote a beautiful foreword, and guided me through the wonderful world of book publishing. Thank you for weathering the oscillations between Grasshopper and Crankypants.

I am indebted to the families who lost somebody, who recounted the intimate details of the most painful days of their lives so that I could capture a mere iota of what that person brought to their world.

Terri and Ed Downs equipped me with an arsenal of documents, text records, memorabilia, and memories, and made me feel like a member of their family. Michelle Whatley endured floods of tears to revisit the emotions that have taken her years to overcome, and her husband, Clay Whatley, supported both of us through that process. They all helped me get to know Danielle so well that she visited me in a vivid dream. I believe that her story will continue her legacy of helping others.

Will Stevens's family, especially Jean, Darrell, and Taylor, invited me into their home and shared a lifetime of stories about their charming boy. I often think of Will when I look at my athletic, brown-eyed son, and I hug him extra hard. Loryn Brown's mother, Ashley Mims, shared videos, photographs, and stories that brought Loryn to life in my mind and, I hope, on these pages. Little bits of her unforgettable personality are now embedded in my psyche. Loryn inspired me to embrace bling.

The book contains too many supporting characters to name, but I am grateful to all who shared their stories, including some who did not make it into the final draft, yet still informed my understanding of a massively complex event. Special thanks goes to Tuscaloosa Fire & Rescue Deputy Chief Chris Williamson, who identified and introduced me to all the right sources, and who trusted me with invaluable maps, tapes, and resources. Tuscaloosa Mayor Walt Maddox did an
unforgettable job in guiding the city through its crisis and shared personal revelations instead of canned quotes in our interview. Fire & Rescue Station 7 and Station 2 contributed greatly to the details and on-the-ground narrative.

I've attempted to describe the science in a way that is accessible to nonscientists, an effort that would have been laughable without the help of a crew of meteorologists who fielded my incessant interrogation for more than a year. At the National Weather Service, Jim Stefkovich and Kevin Laws were instrumental to my weather education, as was the retired NWS meteorologist Brian Peters, who showed me tools and resources that helped my understanding and reporting. Special thanks to James Spann for trusting me to tell his story, Chuck Doswell for vetting my metaphors and winnowing out my “seriously flawed concepts,” Greg Carbin for his reports and big-picture perspective, and Tim Coleman for sharing unpublished videos that helped me re-create the chase scene and dialogue.

For the seeds of this story, I am utterly grateful to
Southern Living
, especially former editor Lindsay Bierman, who envisioned a heavily reported tornado feature that would fit in the pages of a lifestyle magazine. He selected me to lead a team of reporters and writers who canvassed disaster zones in six states, devoted the pages we needed to tell the story, and trusted me to write my heart out. Erin Shaw Street, Robbie Caponetto, Jason Wallis, Art Meripol, David Hanson, Stephanie Granada, and Cory Bordonaro all contributed poignant facts, words, and images. Rick Bragg wrote the heart-wrenching first essay of that feature and guided me through my writing of the rest, at times sitting beside me at the keyboard, putting music in the words. The resulting story, “What Stands in a Storm,” won three professional awards and generated hundreds of e-mails and comments from readers who made me believe that this story should be a book.
Southern Living
publisher Greg Schumann encouraged me to seize the opportunity, and managing editor Candace Higgenbotham graciously granted me rights to use some of the material from the magazine story. I'm grateful to the
whole staff for supporting the book and keeping me on the masthead when I decided I had to leave my post in order to make it happen.

Gracious hosts gave me a place to wrestle with words on writing retreats in wonderful, nurturing places. Dede Clements, a patron of many artists and writers, let me haunt her lovely historic Edgeworth Inn in Monteagle, Tennessee. Dan and Lisa Brooks lent me their magnificent cabin in Blue Ridge, Georgia, during the “blizzard” of 2014.

It took a great leap of faith—quitting a good job with no book contract in hand—to tell a story that needed to be told. For that I thank my family for their unflagging support. My husband, Eddie Freyer, has been urging me for more than a decade to chase my dream of writing books, and was ready before I was to make the freelance leap. He has been a solid partner in everything from canyoneering to parenting, and even became a damn fine writer along the way. My mother, Joyce Cross, helped transcribe hours of interviews and fed me through all-night writing sessions at her house. She will always be my biggest fan. My late father, Ken Cross, was the first editor to make me cry (third grade) and once told me, “To be a writer, you need a callus on your psyche an inch thick.” His best advice—“Tough luck, cream puff” and “Suck it up!”—rings in my ears whenever the going gets tough. My branches of awesome in-laws—the Freyers, the Nagels, and the Ashes—sent great love and words of support from afar, and never rolled their eyes at hearing, for the umpteenth time, about tornadoes.

My son, Austin, understood and forgave me for the snuggles and bedtime stories lost to my weeklong writing retreats. When he was five, he threw a penny in a fountain. I told him he should not speak his wish aloud, or else it may not come true. He informed me it already had.

“What is it?” I asked.

He looked at me with ancient eyes.

“For you to be a writer.”

This book is dedicated to the Alabamians who lost their lives and to the people who face a world without them.

(1) BIBB COUNTY

Ricky Paul Smith, 55