Happ-enings

My family once had a dog that was the furthest thing from a hunting dog possible.

While hunting was in this canine’s blood, there was apparently something even more dominant in her past that made her literally gun-shy.

Fire a gun in one direction, and you would see the dog dart in the other.

Why? We never could find out. However, it was a trait that she carried with her for her entire life.

I can tell you that, while I am no marksman, I do not dash off into the distance at the sound of a gun. However, over the last couple of weeks, I have found myself also embattled with a form of gun-shyness. Not the literal kind like that dog my family once had, but that of a more figurative variety.

My entire life, I have carried with me an unreasonable fear of severe weather. Amplifying that fear is the fact that, as a resident of Nebraska, from time-to-time, unlike a lot of phobias or fears, I must confront mine.

Thankfully, over the years, especially as I got older and lived on my own, I became more apt to deal with that fear. Over time, I think I can honestly say that the anxiety that came with any ominous weather forecasts started to fade away. After all, in the Cornhusker State, weather – especially severe weather – is just a part of life.

That is, until just recently, when things took a dramatic change. In fact, I think you could say that my newfound comfort when confronting severe storms had led me into a sticky situation. I was lured by Mother Nature into a false sense of security.

Early last month, I packed up my camera gear one Thursday afternoon and headed to Burwell, where I was going to see teams from all four of my newspapers’ coverage areas compete at a district track meet. When I set off on my excursion, there was a chance of severe weather, but I – along with my buddy Ken Siemek – was confident in the fact that I would be firmly tucked into my bed before Mother Nature’s worst made it to central Nebraska.

Boy, was I wrong. Midway through the track meet, in the moments after the girls completed the 100-meter hurdles, severe weather alerts flooded the phones of those in the grandstand at Burwell, and, with thunder rumbling and lightning cracking, meet officials advised all in attendance to seek shelter from the approaching storm. Their recommendation

Their recommendation was for spectators like me to ride out the spat of severe weather in our cars.

So, I hoofed it back to my vehicle and hunkered down the best I could.

First came the rain. Then the wind. And then the hail. Amid the waves of the storm, while I was talking to one of my reporters who had just ridden out the same storm in Broken Bow, I became alarmed that something on the south side of Burwell was on fire. That fear was then compounded by the fact that, soon thereafter, a horde of emergency vehicles sped off through the sheets of rain towards the south side of town.

Little did I know, what I thought was a fire – a plume of darkness radiating from a central point – was actually a tornado.

After three decades of keeping abreast of the weather, watching reports days ahead of predicted storms, and seeking shelter when I believed things were about to get dicey, my closest call came while I was sitting in my car, listening to music on the radio, and wondering what had sparked such a large blaze.

After I learned the truth and saw the damage at the rodeo grounds on the south side of Burwell and along Highway 11 on my way back home, I found my naivete as to what I had witnessed hilarious. I mean, I literally had no idea what the thing that I was afraid of for all those years would look like.

At that moment, I felt emboldened. I had faced my fears, and I had survived.

That feeling, however, soon ebbed. As the days and weeks passed, I continued to think about that moment in Burwell and the situation that had surrounded my first tornado sighting.

I had processed all the information that I had and made the best decision that I believed I could have at that instant. Yet, in hindsight, it likely was the wrong decision. Despite all the advice I had heeded my whole life, I decided that it was best for me to ride out the storm in my car, which was only feet from a large, sturdy school building.

Since then, when severe weather threatens, I feel like my family’s dog when a gun fires: lost, confused, and uncertain.

Yet, amid all that uncertainty, I just have to remind myself that all we can ever do is try our hardest and hope for the best. With that gameplan, I feel confident that everything, no matter how gun-shy I am of a situation, will work out for the best.