No Place Like Home

Before I get into 1992, let’s go back to the beginning—my beginning—in 1955. (I know. It was like 3 years before the car was invented.) Like the starting phrase of a bad novel, it was a dark and stormy night, literally. And it looked like I wasn’t going to “pop out” anytime soon. So they sent dad home and kept mom. These were the days when dads had to sit in the waiting room anyway, so they thought he ought to sleep in his own bed instead of loitering in the lobby all night.
Dad was a little nervous, I think, so instead of giving the hospital his phone number—just in case—he gave them his boss’ number. So sure enough, in the middle of the night they called Hildred Tucker’s home and said, “Your wife is about to have a baby.” Hildred informed them that his wife Mary was lying in bed asleep next to him. Well, it didn’t take long to figure out what had happened. Hildred gave them dad’s number, and dad rushed up to St. John.
That night, the newest, youngest member of Mom’s OB/GYN staff was on call. Dr. Cohen delivered me early that next morning. (As a side note, that same Dr. Cohen, as the senior member of the same group, was on call almost 28 years later and also delivered our first daughter Whitney.)
By 1959, my family had moved to West Tulsa and we started attending a little church at the corner of West 48th and South 30th West Avenue. I grew up at Carbondale Assembly of God. In fact, I don’t remember anything prior to Carbondale.
In October of 1967, the congregation moved to its current location on West 51st street. I barely remember that. But in the previous summer of 1967, my favorite cousin Phil had moved from Muskogee, Oklahoma to Tulsa. That I remember well.
We were born seven months apart in 1955—he in May and I in December. But we loved one another like brothers from the time we were little. In fact, before they moved to Tulsa, anytime one of us would visit the other we would cry when it was time to go home.
“Why do we have to live so far apart? It’s not fair.”
So, it was a glorious day, the day they rolled into West Tulsa to live. And, while they were building a house in Berryhill, they rented a house a little over a mile from ours. That summer, we would walk to and from each other’s houses, because we could. It was 1967. (Cars couldn’t go more than 10 miles an hour that far back, I don’t think.)
One day, we were walking up 51st street on the way to our house and passed the home of an older boy from the church. He was out mowing his lawn. Roger Sharp was three years older than us. I was getting ready to go into the 6th grade. Which means he was getting ready to start the 9th. I was so nervous. I didn’t even know if he would know who I was. In fact, I still don’t know if he did. But I was determined to introduce my cousin to him and vice versa. I probably wanted them both to think I was cool.
Roger stopped his riding lawnmower, acted like he knew who I was—even if he didn’t—and couldn’t have been kinder to me and to Phil, the new kid.
From that summer to this day, Phil and I have been almost inseparable. People who have known us for many years think of us together. Many of those people believe we are brothers, when, in fact, we are closer than that. But in less than two years we would add another one to the band of brothers. That kid on the mower would form a fraternity with us that would take us all over the world together.

It Started with a Tornado

Whitney was ticked. Her mom had cried wolf so many times before, she was certain that the storm would pass without a tornado. She had never even seen one. So why did she have to climb down these stairs some 20 feet below the church’s sanctuary for a stupid false alarm? She was certain that she was the only 15 year old in the city being subjected to this.

To prove her disgust she found a place to sit on some old ceiling tiles away from the others. How her mom had sucked the youth pastor and his family into her nightmare she didn’t know. But she wouldn’t have to wonder very long.

Whitney, along with her two sisters Emily and Natalie, had taken refuge underground with their mom Vicki Taylor—my wife and three daughters. Joining them were Darryl and Faith Wootton and their daughter Lindsay. It was Monday night, May the third, 1999, and a huge storm, which had already left death and devastation in its path, was roaring up the I-44 turnpike toward West Tulsa.

My wife Vicki had already heard the reports of destruction south of Oklahoma City. She had even seen video clips of the toothpicks that had once been the bedroom community of Moore. Halfway between Tulsa and Oklahoma City, the Tanger Outlet Mall in Stroud was also left in shambles. They were not taking any chances.

Mom’s phone rang.

“Hello!”
“Yeah, Susan, we’re in the basement of the church.”
“Okay, we’ll stay right here until we hear otherwise.”

The call had come from a family friend whose husband was the prominent local weatherman. Chief meteorologist Travis Meyer and his team at KTUL, the ABC affiliate, were tracking the storms. Without alarming them, Susan wanted to make sure they were safe. She knew what was coming. Her husband and his people just down the road at the top of Lookout Mountain were taking cover themselves.

To ease their own tension, the adults tried to make casual conversation. But the talking was interrupted by an ominous radio prediction. It was Travis.

“Take cover, now!”

Then, suddenly, Whitney’s frustration turned to fear. The lights went out and the door to the basement started to vibrate violently. It only lasted a few seconds, but it seemed like forever. It was as though the air was being sucked out of the room. And the darkness was absolute. Now she regretted being across the room from everyone else. She couldn’t remember ever knowing blackness this black.