I realized that, once again, I had left my cell phone in my desk drawer and would have to go back. For once in my life, my chronic forgetfulness served me well. It may even have saved my life.
In the lobby, people were milling everywhere, packed in like sardines, as the entire building tried to fit in the tiny lobby area between the banks of elevators, trying to stay away from the outside windows. We couldn't see much of the outside and there was little or no news about what was going on outside, except rumors and snippets of information texted to people's cell phones. We laughed and made jokes, thinking this was just a passing storm. I even made a less-than-tasteful joke about how tornadoes seem to target the poorest people in the towns they hit, especially trailer parks, so this twister would obviously hit the dirt parking lot down by the river where I and the two other AmeriCorps members park our cars for free. It was funny at the time and I thought, "Now that I've said it out loud, there's no possible way it could have happened." Much to my dismay, I was dead wrong.
We waited in the lobby for what felt like ages, waiting for the elevators to get back up and running. The doors to each floor in the stairwell lock from the inside, so we couldn't even take the stairs back up to the office. Finally, someone called the receptionist in our office, who happened to still be there, so we all tramped up the stairs and she let us in. I immediately grabbed my cell phone and left, thinking it had been a long day and I just wanted to go home.
When I stepped outside for the first time, I felt as though I had been punched in the gut. My blood ran cold as I stood in the middle of the one-way street behind the Sheraton, surveying the disaster scene that lay all around me. It was like a horror movie. Tree branches and whole trees lay on the ground everywhere, a piece of insulation from God-knows-where lay torn on the ground, sirens screamed all around me in every direction as emergency teams rushed to help the injured. As I stood there, stunned, my phone rang. It was my dad, all the way up in Lebanon, New Hampshire, calling to see if I was okay. I was amazed at how quickly he had gotten the news. I told him I was fine and described the scene around me. He asked about my car and I told him I was on my way to the parking lot to check on it and I would call him when I got there. The walk back to my car never felt so long. I had to dodge stop-and-go traffic on East Columbus Ave, as cops directed traffic through the dysfunctional street lights and drivers stared unblinkingly at the wreckage around them, paying very little attention to the traffic. One girl was so intent on taking pictures from the driver's seat with her cell phone, she almost hit me. I don't think she ever knew I was there.
Walking through the parking garage, I was shocked to see tree branches blown all the way inside and caught under people's cars. I thought, "If it's this bad inside the covered garage, I should be awfully nervous about my car. When I stepped around the ticket-booth arms at the entrance of the garage and out onto West Columbus Ave, I had to stop and catch my breath; all along the train tracks, where there had been a thick wall of trees and shrubs that morning, was now a clear view all the way across the river to the transfer station in West Springfield. To my left, huge trees lay across the roadway, blocking most of the traffic and I could see they had taken out some stoplight poles and power lines. To my right, I could see Memorial Bridge, where the tornado first touched down and knocked over a tractor-trailer. As I crossed the street, carefully dodging slow-moving cars, I saw there was a power line down across the entrance of the parking lot and the ticket-collector's booth was completely blown off its foundation.
I gingerly stepped across the power line and into the dirt lot. People were standing around everywhere with looks of shock and dismay on their faces. The closer I got to where I'd parked my car, the more nervous I got. All around me were cars covered in dirt and mud and tree branches, many with one or more of their windows blown out, the shattered glass covering the ruined interiors. When I finally came to my car, this is what I found:
I was utterly astounded to find my car completely intact. No broken windows, and only a few scratches, dents, and a broken antenna. I felt like the last woman standing in a game of Russian Roulette, with cars on either side of me completely destroyed. Even the sign for the parking lot missed my car when it ripped right out of the ground. I called my dad back and let him know the car was scratched but not badly damaged. As I was on the phone, my aunt called, too, but I let it go to voice mail, figuring I would call her back. My dad said the damage was probably worse than I could see through all the dirt, but I was so relieved and so thankful to be safe and unhurt that I didn't even care about the damage to my brand-new, 5-month old car, especially when I saw what was tangled in the branches of the tree limb that was stuck in my passenger-side front wheel-well. It was a cardboard sign, handwritten with black marker that read: "HOMELESS. PLEASE HELP. THANK-YOU." I immediately spun around and looked with horror at Memorial Bridge behind me. I know that there are often men with similar signs standing on the median strip at the end of the bridge; I pass by them every morning. I could only pray that this man made it to shelter in time.
As I cleaned the dirt and debris off my car and dragged the tree branches away, I saw one of my coworkers, Betsy, come into the parking lot. She had ridden to work that day with one of the other AmeriCorps members, Aleta, who rents part of her house. The poor girl's car was ruined, all three windows on the passenger side completely shattered. Betsy and I spent a lot of time taking pictures and just remarking on the incredible damage that surrounded us. I moved my car up next to hers and offered to give her a ride home.
As we waited for her to get in touch with Aleta, who was still at the office, I kept trying to call my aunt back, knowing she and much of my family were probably afraid for my safety. I couldn't get a call out to save my life; I just kept getting a busy signal and getting cut off, meaning the circuits were all overloaded with people trying to do the exact same thing. It was a miracle I had managed to get a hold of my dad. Even my text messages were bouncing back. I heard a voice call my name and I turned and saw Michael and Arlene from the Courthouse coming toward me. They had parked in the same lot that day by happenstance, even though they usually park downtown. Michael told me that windows had been blown out at the courthouses and people had run inside for shelter, bleeding and crying. The tornado had taken the whole top floor off a building on Main Street, about a block from my office building, and cars were flipped over on Bliss Street. Michael, who always tries to lighten a somber mood, wrote "WASH ME" on the side of my filthy car.
Suddenly, someone told us there might be another tornado coming, so I grabbed my keys and my purse and we ran back to the office building. The elevators were working again, so we went up to the fourth floor and watched from our office to see if anything else was going to happen. Thankfully, it didn't. Looking out of Marion's window, I saw camera equipment on the rooftop below and realized the CBS 3 news team on the floor below us must have dropped everything and run for cover. They had even left the microphone and a hairbrush lying on the ground.
I used my office phone to call a few friends and family members that I knew were worried about me and then, the danger having mostly passed, I took Betsy home. Aleta followed us in her car, which she insisted on bringing home to get out of the rain, even though she had to brush glass off the seat to get in. We passed through a thundercloud as black as night on our way through Springfield, but we all made it home to Chicopee safe and sound. The town was practically untouched by the storm and the skies were mostly clear by the time I finally pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building.
Suddenly, someone told us there might be another tornado coming, so I grabbed my keys and my purse and we ran back to the office building. The elevators were working again, so we went up to the fourth floor and watched from our office to see if anything else was going to happen. Thankfully, it didn't. Looking out of Marion's window, I saw camera equipment on the rooftop below and realized the CBS 3 news team on the floor below us must have dropped everything and run for cover. They had even left the microphone and a hairbrush lying on the ground.
I used my office phone to call a few friends and family members that I knew were worried about me and then, the danger having mostly passed, I took Betsy home. Aleta followed us in her car, which she insisted on bringing home to get out of the rain, even though she had to brush glass off the seat to get in. We passed through a thundercloud as black as night on our way through Springfield, but we all made it home to Chicopee safe and sound. The town was practically untouched by the storm and the skies were mostly clear by the time I finally pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building.
Later, I looked up news stories on the tornado and found out that four people were killed in the disaster, and countless more were injured. This video was taken from the weather station on top of my office building, this video was taken from a car on I-91, less than a mile from my building and looking right at it, and this one shows the roof being ripped of an historic building on Main Street, a couple of blocks away. Apologies for the profanity in the latter two videos. I probably would have sounded about the same if I were in their shoes.
I had friends and family calling me all night asking if I was okay. It was so nice to have people concerned about my safety, but after the fourth or fifth call, I just didn't want to tell the story any more. This is my full account, then, of the tornado that hit Springfield, MA on June 1, 2011, the official opening day of Atlantic Hurricane Season. I'm thanking God and all my lucky stars that the worst that happened to me was having to deal with my auto insurance company. It makes you thankful for everything you have, from your friends and family right down to the limbs precariously attached to your body. This was a day I will never forget.
I had friends and family calling me all night asking if I was okay. It was so nice to have people concerned about my safety, but after the fourth or fifth call, I just didn't want to tell the story any more. This is my full account, then, of the tornado that hit Springfield, MA on June 1, 2011, the official opening day of Atlantic Hurricane Season. I'm thanking God and all my lucky stars that the worst that happened to me was having to deal with my auto insurance company. It makes you thankful for everything you have, from your friends and family right down to the limbs precariously attached to your body. This was a day I will never forget.
