The afternoon of April 3rd, 1974 I looked out the window at the end of my dorm hallway at Cedarville College in Ohio. A massive storm was brewing. Thick black clouds, brilliant lightning, and a rumbling, foreboding thunder signaled something big was about to happen.
I had completed my on-air shift at WCDR, the campus radio station. During the shift I had seen a warning come across the Associated Press machine stating that tornadoes were imminent. I may have announced it, though I don’t recall if my duties included live weather warnings. But I do remember thinking that the certainty of the “imminent tornadoes” prediction was a bit extreme. Boy, was I wrong.
After my shift, watching the rapidly unfolding weather event from my second-story perch I noticed several students just a few yards from the dorm looking west at something. I went downstairs to join them. What we saw was astounding, to say the least. But it was about to be life-changing for thousands and life-ending for an unfortunate few. We watched a swirling wall of cloud a half mile wide slowly descend from the blackness above to the churning ground below. Not the snake-like funnel we normally associate with tornadoes. This was different. So wide that the rotating 300 mile per hour wind seemed, from a distance, to move in an eerie slow motion.
It was a massive tornado dropping into the heart of Xenia, Ohio. We learned a few days later that this monster was only one of 148 tornadoes striking communities that day and the next ranging from Canada to the southern U.S.. The deadliest tornado outbreak in U.S. history. But Xenia’s tornado was the biggest one.
Standing outside with the other students, the swirling monster still several miles away, we noticed a surreal scene overhead – thousands of pieces of pink material of some sort drifting away from the funnel and over our heads like an endless flock of birds. Some of the pieces dropped onto the ground around us. They were shreds of insulation being catapulted from hundreds of homes being destroyed.
It became clear that the tornado was heading to the college. At that point, my fellow students and I felt it would be wise to head underground. A nearby science building had a basement, which is where I stayed while the tornado pounded the north end of the college. Huddled with other students just below the staircase leading to a bank of windows at the landing upstairs, I still remember the sound of what I imagined to be vengeful giants pummeling the windows with massive buckets of water.
After the tornado passed by, ravaging other communities to the east of the college, students emerged from the protection of several campus basements (no students were injured that I’m aware of) and we surveyed the damage. Only one dorm— very close to mine – sustained major damage. The entire roof was torn off. One daring student photographer had braved the storm, standing outside of my dorm, camera in hand. He snapped iconic photos of the nearby dorm as it was being ripped apart. His photos made the news.
The infamous Xenia tornado was historic. Thirty-two people killed and over 1,100 injured in Xenia. More than 1,400 homes and businesses were destroyed or damaged in this small city. It was the tornado from which the now well-known Fujita Scale was developed. The highest intensity tornadoes score F5. And the Xenia tornado was definitely that.
The next few days several students, including me, traveled the few miles to Xenia and nearby Central State University to help with cleanup. I had seen massive tornado destruction nine years prior when my parents took my sister and me by car to Kokomo, Indiana, just a few miles from our home, to view the aftermath of the Palm Sunday 1965 tornado. But Xenia was worse. And seeing it up close had a much greater impact. I just wish I had taken some photos.
Ever since I was a kid I’d always wanted to see a tornado. I didn’t wish one upon anyone, of course, but if there was going to be one I wanted to be there — at a safe distance. I got my wish. I don’t recall being afraid – only mesmerize. But I did miss an opportunity. I had a camera with film in my car which was parked very close to where I witnessed the oncoming tornado. But in the excitement of the experience, I failed to remember that it was there. A missed opportunity.
But that one brave student, whose name I don’t recall but who I always admired, remembered his camera that day.
Rod Robison is a Tucson, Arizona based mentalist, magician, author and speaker who helps companies and organizations create unforgettable events for their employees and clients. www.TucsonMentalist.com
