Jackson still recovering from tornado

As quickly as the F-3 tornado arrived, it moved on, but signs of its destruction remain.

By Bob Miller

Southeast Missourian

The tornado could have killed anyone in its path.

Firefighter Steve Grant. Fork lift driver Jeff Grammer. Handyman Danny Davis. They practically shook hands with the twister. Met it up close. Bowed to its face and begged for mercy.

They were three normal guys performing their blue-collar duties on that dark Tuesday evening one year ago today.

They, like everyone in Jackson the moments before the 21st hour of that day last year, remember where they were when the devastating F-3 plopped into the county seat.

The folks in this small but thriving town remember what they were doing when the spinning wrecking ball dipped from the sky at Ceramo. They remember in vivid detail the swinging doors that couldn't be pulled open when the twister passed over the Immaculate Conception Catholic School. They remember the silence. The pressure. The chaos. The destruction.

In terms of weather, the story started at precisely 7:56 p.m. The meteorologists at the National Weather Service in Paducah, Ky., perked up when the Bollinger County Sheriff's Department called in reports of three-fourths-inch hailstones falling 30 miles west of Jackson.

This particular storm wasn't just any storm.

The meteorologists call it a super cell -- an oversized system with an angry bull's attitude and a brutal dictator's will.

This particular cell had slowly plowed its way through Missouri towns beginning May 4. It gave birth to numerous twisters that killed 38 people on the way to Jackson.

At the time the first report of hail from Bollinger County came in to the weather service, people in Jackson didn't have much to worry about. They were in the clear.

Grammer, the forklift driver, was one of about 15 workers on the evening shift that night at Ceramo, a plant that makes pots.

Davis, a self-employed heating and air conditioning technician, was out making a service call.

And Walter Biri was teaching five adult students how to use Excel software in a computer class at Immaculate Conception School.

They knew there was a chance for bad weather that night, but the tornado watches didn't prevent them from going on with their normal activities.

The good thing -- perhaps the best thing -- about this super cell was that it didn't surprise anyone. The region had been under tornado watches for most of the day, and as the storm moved toward Cape Girardeau County, warnings were issued.

That didn't mean everyone paid attention to those watches and warnings. By the time Biri headed to class, the weather radar images showed two strong cells around the Rolla area heading northeast toward St. Louis. As for the Ceramo employees, they had to go to work. So while most Jackson residents were secure in their homes with the television broadcasting warnings, others were typing away, fixing an air conditioner or pushing levers aboard a heavy piece of machinery.

At 8:15 p.m., another report came in to the NWS from Bollinger County. A tornado was spotted in Glenallen.

At 8:30 p.m., golfball-sized hail was reported at the Bollinger County and Cape Girardeau County line. But the tornado in Glenallen apparently had not stayed on the ground.

David Hitt, the county's emergency management coordinator, was taking note of all this action in his tiny concrete office in the corner basement of the county administrative building. Normally, Hitt mans the office alone during storms so his assistants don't rack up overtime hours. But this was a serious storm, bigger than most, and he called in assistant Charlie Griffith to help. The EOC is the go-between, the link between weather spotters and the NWS, and the link from the NWS to local law enforcement.

At about 8:38 p.m., Walter Biri and his computer students heard hail pellets splattering on the roof. The group curiously spilled into the lobby area and peeked outdoors. A few small hailstones dropped sporadically. When the hail stopped, the teacher and pupils thought the worst had passed. Back to Excel they went.

Danny Davis was on his way back to his Millersville home from a service call in Jackson. Ironically, he is a trained weather spotter for the county Emergency Operations Center. But he wasn't assigned to spot weather that Tuesday evening. In fact, the opposite happened. The weather spotted him.

Grammer, seated atop the fork lift, was pushing rail cars through Ceramo's large kiln, an oven used to cook the pots. The crew left the big door open that night to let in the evening air. Grammer looked up at one of the overhead lights and noticed dust blowing in a strange little swirl. A few minutes later, Grammer's wife, Dawn, also a Ceramo employee, said a tornado had been spotted west of Jackson.

No big deal. They say that all the time, Jeff thought.

Then the lights went out.

The Jackson firefighters were all keeping an eye on the skies, but no tornado had been spotted. Not yet.

Jackson police and fire dispatcher Lisa Miller was busy taking phone calls inside the police-fire complex, the building just across the street from Ceramo and just a quick glance south of the Catholic school. Just like they always do in storms, calls were coming in reporting funnel clouds. People always claim to see funnel clouds.

Jackson fire chief Brad Golden was one of the first to make it official.

Each lightning flash exposed a thick, white spinning tube to the southwest of Ceramo and Kasten Masonry. Golden stared at the image. It wasn't moving left. Wasn't moving right. That only left one direction. Forward.

One of the firefighters called over the speakers for the staff to take cover.

Danny Davis, driving his brand-new service van southbound in front of Meyer's Bakery, looked to his right. He slammed on his brakes and grabbed the two-way radio.

At 8:46 p.m., the first official call came into David Hitt.

"Dave, I think I see a tornado here in Jackson," he said. "It's coming over the fire department right now!"

The lights had just gone out at Ceramo.

Jeff Grammer could feel the pressure. He heard the roar.

"It's here!" Grammer shouted to his wife. "Get under the lift!"

The tin roof clanked as it peeled away from the building. The walls cracked.

Dear God, if you're going to take us now, take us right into heaven, Grammer prayed.

Like a surround speaker system, the tornado's violent breath passed from one side of the building, over the top of Grammer, to the other side of the building.

The rest of the police and fire personnel had made it to the basement when Capt. Steve Grant arrived. The tornado was bearing down on the fire department, and Grant was in a hurry to get to safety. Running from the administrative building adjacent to the complex, he bolted toward the back doors of the fire truck bay. His legs pushed with all his might. He trudged forward against the wind.

The frequent lightning exposed swirling debris. As he made it to the northwest corner of the building, an EOC communication van rocked violently back and forth. Then the tornado picked up the van off the ground, suspended it in the air, twisted it on its side and put it down again. Grant, in the darkness and chaos, ran into the back of a parked ambulance. He was knocked off his feet. Back up again, he ran inside the bay.

"Dave, it's a big one," Davis said inside his air conditioning service van.

"Get out if you can," Hitt replied. "Get out of hazard's way, buddy. Get out of trouble. Get under some shelter."

But it was too late for that.

The tornado was now a mass of swirling sparks. A million of them, lighting up the sky. Two smaller, eager funnels spewed from the main trunk. They wove like dizzy tops, dancing violently around power lines before withdrawing back into their parent. The tornado picked up a tree and twirled it around as easy as a cowboy's lasso.

The base was at least 25 to 30 feet wide and about 20 feet in front of Davis' van. Davis buried his head into the steering wheel and put his hands over his head.

Winds from 160 to 200 miles per hours swirled, whirling bricks and 2-by-4s into his van. The wind pushed his van over a curb and into the Amoco gas station's lot, up against the gas pumps.

When the power went out inside the adult computer class at IC, Biri popped into the lobby again for another look.

Janitor Jim Streiler was out there too.

"If you're going to the basement, now would be a good time," Streiler said.

The class overheard, and Biri guided them down the stairwell to the double doors that led to the basement.

Biri grasped the handles and pulled with all his might, but couldn't budge them more than an inch.

"Is it locked?" one of the students said.

"No, it doesn't lock," he replied.

The wind gushed through the adjacent elevator shaft. Biri peered through the small vertical window on the door, and through the emergency lights he could see a picture on the wall blowing straight out.

And just like that, as quickly as the tornado arrived, it moved on. All 15 Ceramo employees who scrambled for cover were OK. Grant made it down the stairs at about the same time the rest were coming back up. Davis suffered only a cut on his ear. The computer students waited the tornado out in the stairwell. Most of their vehicles were not driveable. But their bodies were OK.

The tornado continued on its northeasterly path toward more businesses that were closed for the day and residential neighborhoods where many had already taken cover. It destroyed 13 homes and nine businesses.

The tornado could've killed anyone in its way. But it didn't. Not one person was seriously injured.

Hundreds of emergency workers swarmed Jackson that night, but the calls of serious injuries never made it to Hitt's office.

Jackson's police and fire station, its roof blown away and contents saturated by rain, was rendered useless for several months. A command center was established in the basement of the county administrative building.

For 10 minutes, the tornado mulched Jackson, leaving in its wake a debris avenue a half-mile wide and two miles long.

More than 525,000 minutes later, Jackson is still recovering.

Dawn exposed the true damage that was done to the city and volunteers rushed to help pick up the pieces.

Jeff Grammer, like several others at Ceramo, was laid off work for a couple weeks. Today, Ceramo is back at a full staff, and the buildings have been replaced. But the factory lost a lot of customers during its busiest retail season, customers it may never do business with again.

The police and fire station is back together, but IC is not. Much of the school was wiped out, though fortunately not the part the computer class was in. The school is on track for an August grand opening of a new, bigger campus. School officials and parents are thankful the tornado passed in the evening when only six adult students were perched at desks.

Some small-business owners are upright again. Larry Stone moved his dog-sitting business to a Cape Girardeau location and is doing well. But Garry and Gail Seabaugh have yet to open their shop. Another month of indoor construction and they'll be back to refurbishing antique furniture.

Brian and Connie Meyer's bakery is still in the planning mode. This summer, the owners will level a piece of land on East Jackson Boulevard. They could be back to peddling pastries again as soon as next fall.

Several residents are still not living in their original homes. Roofers and men in hard hats are still highly visible throughout the residential areas that were damaged a year ago. Paul and Calie Wilson, who hadn't even unpacked their moving boxes when the tornado did the unpacking for them. They lived with parents for a couple weeks then found a duplex to stay in until their home is ready -- possibly late next month.

But Calie and Paul Wilson, like so many others in Jackson, still, even a year later, choose to look at the bright side of the May 6 disaster.

The tornado could have killed anyone in its path, but it didn't.

"To be honest, I don't even look at it as a negative thing," Calie said. "You learn to appreciate everyone around you. You look at the world in a different way. Above all else, you count all the blessings through it all."

Jackson resident and Mississippi State University meteorology major Denny Stortz contributed to this report.

bmiller@semissourian.com

243-6635