crossposted from BlogHer

I stared at the phone in my hand. My sister had texted me two words: MIDLIFE CRISIS. Because I sent her a pic of a convertible I saw while driving home with my seven-year-old daughter. But I bought one, anyway.

A Brief History of Responsible Automobiles

My parents always bought cars with cash. I don't know if they still do, but when we were growing up there were never debts like car payments floating around. Never. I was fortunate enough to drive not one but two used manual-shift Chevy Novas during high school, and when I went off to college, my parents surprised me with a used but still I thought white-hot burgandy Ford Probe. Its doors were tank-like, and it had those headlights that flip up and the seatbelts that move over you instead of you having to buckle them. (If you're under the age of 30, you probably have no idea such a thing used to exist. It did, and it was so awesomely Star Wars I can't even begin to describe it.)

I kept Peg the Probe from 1992 until 1998, when she sadly began a rapid deterioration into Things Were Falling Off Every Day. My father let me buy his car, Priscilla the Prizm, off him for $4,000. At the time, I had this sort of money in my savings account (the young, houseless and childless can be rich) and off I went to move to Kansas City in Priscilla.

In 2005, Priscilla and I were T-boned on a busy street by a SUV that was much bigger than we were. I was pretty distraught, because her axle was bent and JUST LIKE THAT I went from having no car payment to needing a car, stat. By this time, I was married and my husband and I had replaced his Ford Escort with a Ford Explorer, which we owned outright. We liked the Explorer so much we decided to get another one, because the one we had seemed like it would die soon, and then when that car died, we'd just replace it with something more Prizm-like. It made total and complete sense to us at the time -- gas was cheap, we had a baby and a ton of baby stuff and we made road trips up to Iowa at least once a month with all our junk in tow.

In 2008, gas prices did that thing. You remember that thing? When none of us could afford to go farther than two feet? And my husband and I owned two -- not one but TWO -- gas-sucking SUVs. We were spending $150 a week on gas. Ifreaked out and demanded we right our wrong immediately, but when we went to buy a Corolla, the used ones didn't exist. No one was letting go of a small, fuel-efficient car. So we ended up with another car payment and a very sensible, new, very basic Corolla.

Which then got hit by a tornado.

This is what it looks like when the universe is trying to tell you something.

My husband travels a lot for work and has a rental car. We still had the Explorer -- yes, the original one we thought would die. It has 190,000 miles on it, the front passenger door won't open from the outside, the air conditioning no longer works, it's rusting and the leather seats are stained and ripped. But it still runs, so we had lots of time to think about what to do.

Then, last weekend, my daughter and I were driving home when I passed a for-sale sign on a ramshackle midnight-blue Ford Mustang convertible. I stepped on the brakes and whipped the Explorer around. My daughter's eyes widened as I pulled over on the side of the road and called the number soaped across the windshield. Then we drove straight home, grabbed my husband out of the driveway and drove him to see it.

He was understandably flummoxed by my move. Me, who made him return the convertible he rented last year at BlogHer '11 because it was too impractical for all our luggage. Me, who made him give up his beloved, tricked-out Explorer for a teeny tiny Corolla. Me, who once pinned a Debt-o-Meter to the refrigerator to remind us daily of our credit card sins. What the hell was I thinking?

When Someone Almost Dies, You See Things Differently

I was thinking that we were lucky we only lost our car in that tornado. I was thinking I didn't want another car payment, and every sensible, responsible car he was showing me would mean another two- or three-year loan. I was thinking we made so many car-buying decisions in the past based on what the smart, right thing to do was in the case of any emergency, and then along came a tornado to blow up all our best-laid plans.

I was thinking about how we'd already gone through the carseat years.

I was thinking about how many years I have left to have adventures with my daughter.

I was thinking about how much time you end up spending in a car on the weekends getting your responsible adult errands done. And how much time you spend putting off little things that would be fun and not really hurt anyone even if they are a tish off the beaten path.

And I was thinking about my anxiety, and how I always try to plan for every single thing that could possibly happen, and how the older I get the more I realize I can't do anything but pray hard and row for shore. I told my husband all of this on Sunday night.

On Monday morning, he sent me a listing for a 1997 Chrysler Sebring with 71,000 miles on it that we could buy with the Corolla insurance payout, straight-up. No car payment. And the air conditioning works great.

We named her "Vicki."

I picked the little angel up from school early yesterday because I thought there would be extreme weather, and I was paranoid after the decimation of Joplin.

The sun shone and the birdies sang.

Then there was today.

I was totally joking. And note to Rita: It's Wednesday.

I grabbed Petunia, my work laptop, my cell phone and my work notebook and shut myself in the only room with a door in the basement. And then my mind starting doing its anxiety thing.

I heard thunder and rain and sirens going on, shutting off, going on. I live in the eastern suburbs of Kansas City.

I pictured the little angel hunched in the basement at school, crying. I pictured not being able to get to her. I pictured every nightmare a mother can have. I felt so lonely.

And then they started pouring in: the tweets.

Finally the storm passed. Unfortunately, it took its toll on nearby Sedalia.

Even though I picked up the little angel early yesterday, even though we were two hours late this morning because of a dentist appointment, I asked.

And they made me feel better, normal even.

The sky was a mixture of puffy white, angry gray and brilliant blue as I drove to the school. Kind of like my mood.

"Were you scared?" I asked, as we walked to the car.

"A little."

"Did you cry?"

"No, I tried to be brave about it."

The teachers did skits for the kids during the hour and a half they were in the basement. And apparently gave them Pop-Tarts because they were stuck down there during lunch. I am so impressed by their ingenuity and grace under pressure keeping all those kids entertained for so long.

I came back and realized I'd left people hanging, these people I'd relied on so heavily over the past two hours. So I tweeted I was home with my girl.

All told, I probably talked to at least 25 different people today, some of whom I barely know. They distracted me and filled my heart with their good mojo. I didn't feel alone anymore.

Thank you, my friends. It's an amazing thing when you can have community alone in the dark.

I'm cross-posting my husband's mind-bogglingly well-written essay today from Ain't No Free Lunches because I think he said it better than I can say it. I didn't grow up near there. I don't know Parkersburg. He did, and he does.  But we both know Iowa, we're from Iowa, and when something horrible happens to Iowa, someone walks on my grave.

As I've said before, I am fascinated by tornadoes.  They and the fear and awe of them have shaped my understanding of the Midwest for my entire life.  This blog is based on the idea that your life can be literally picked up and moved at any point by chaos or God or some other unpredictable storm.

We're praying for you, Parkersburg.  Surrender, Dorothy.

Source: Des Moines Register

My wife and I were in Lawrence, KS on Sunday evening - enjoying a fabulous wedding reception with old friends we hadn't seen in awhile. About 11:30 pm I received the following text message from my brother: "f4 tornado hits parkersburg. town gone."

I've never had a message quite like that.

For those of you not familiar with my background - I grew up in a tiny community in NE Iowa. The size of a duck-fart, around 450 people. No stop lights. A single Catholic church. One gas station. Biggest employers are the local taverns. It's the type of town where you can mail something to just a name sans an address, and the postmaster will make sure it gets delivered. Every state has a town like this. They are all over the Midwest. Most have either died a slow death due to tough agricultural issues and lack of commercial industry. Some have been swallowed up by a neighboring city. In the case of my hometown, its only access is from 2-lane county and state highways. These types of communities are proud beyond belief. If you were raised in a small town, you are even prouder of the experiences you had growing up.

So when the hangover subsided Monday morning, I hopped on a computer at the hotel to look up the damage and see what the text message the night before was all about. What I saw put a lump in my throat.

If you are reading this, you no doubt have already heard about news concerning the tornadoes that struck Iowa and Minnesota over the weekend. As with any major tornado news story there were tales of survival and those not so fortunate. It's the time of year we come to know as the fifth season: Tornado Season. When I was growing up, there was always a hint of excitement when the sirens sounded during a bad thunderstorm and my parents told us to go to the basement. It wasn't until a few years ago that I actually realized how bad these things can be. I had the opportunity in 2003 to volunteer my time for a day cleaning up up after an EF2 sized tornado swept through the north part of Kansas City hitting near William Jewel College and some neighboring homes. I spent the day picking up pieces of debris no bigger than my hand. Littered across acres of land. If you are lucky, an EF2 tornado will leave your house standing without windows, doors or a roof. Everything inside will be blown out. You have to rebuild, but at least the town around you is still intact and you will have quite a few resources to get your life back up to speed. You will be missing things that are dear to you, but you can survive EF2 tornadoes by taking the correct measures of safety. It was on that day that I said to myself, "I will never take a tornado warning lightly again."

We've all done it, I'm sure. When the siren sounds - go the nearest patio and look up to the sky to see for yourself. Dodge some hail, comment on the hard rain and wind and pretend to be weather spotter.

It's also the dumbest thing anyone can do. Hell, I've done it. Not since 2003, but I've done it. When you hear that these things can virtually drop out of the sky in seconds and pound your property in less time than it takes to crack open a cold one, you realize quickly that you are just flirting with disaster. I decided on that day in 2003 that I didn't want to become a statistic. Parkersburg, IA is what you would call a hop, skip and a jump from my hometown. Far enough that you have to drive there. Close enough that you might know someone. I read the news of the families having to pack up what is left, in a single garbage bag, and find a place to sleep. Possibly with neighbors miles away. Most likely in a shelter. The destruction was so bad that the town had to be put on curfew. Only those who lived there were able to go back during daylight to continue sifting through the piles and pieces, hoping to find that last picture album or small memento. I read about the school in Parkersburg. A high-school that was everything to that town. Growing up, we knew Parkersburg to the the home of Aplington-Parkersburg. The home of the Falcons. The school with teams we ALL envied because of their power. State titles. Division 1A athletes. NFL professionals. As is the case in small towns and diminishing enrollment, the school was combined between two communities who live for everything that is on the school events calendar.

I think back to what life was like growing up with a school that had K-12 all in one building. (Not one room, one BUILDING....save the jokes.) If my entire town was wiped out and more importantly my school was leveled, it would no doubt set my town back so far I'm not so sure it would even have the ability to rebuild. Most families at that point would have probably just given up. There are few jobs around anyway and if those few small employers were taken out - there wouldn't be much reason to stick around. And losing the school would have been the only common place for kids. Things change daily in our lives, but when you are under 18 and still in school, that tends to be the central focal point of your life. And for those in Parkersburg and Aplington, IA - it's now gone.

Last year, we heard so much about the town of Greensburg, KS. Similar in size and shape to those small communities mentioned, it was completely wiped off the map by a large tornado. In that instance, it was an EF5. The mother of all tornadoes. Aka: The Finger of God - thanks to the movie "Twister." As you saw from Greensburg, the community had to make the decision of either rebuilding from scratch or to bulldoze completely and sell the land for a wind farm. They chose the former and with much outpouring of support from celebrities and other headline grabbers, they have been fortunate to get things going - albeit slowly, but the news coming from Greensburg recently sounds as though they are on their way. And good for them. Nobody should have to face erasing history and not have a hometown to go back to. I have to wonder, though, how much all of those headlines did for Greensburg. Would the overwhelming support have arrived if it wasn't for CNN, the Weather Channel and Hollywood? It needed and STILL needs every bit of that support to make sure it makes it back 100%.

Sitting here in Kansas City, I think of what it is I might be able to do to help those communities back home. Those small towns in Iowa. The state where I grew up. The place where I learned how to respect those who were older and where "Work Harder" was the recipe for success in life. Send clothes? They don't need my trash. Send food? It's Iowa. There will be food. Trust me. Send money? Sure. That's the easy thing, I guess. In situations of total disaster, money tends to do the most good. Money can help in so many ways - heck, they don't even have a toilet let alone toilet paper at this point. They need gas money to travel 20 miles just to get to a grocery store. The people affected by the weekend tornadoes in Iowa and Minnesota need the rest of us.

If you are still reading this, I'm not going to ask you send money or clothes or food. But I am going to ask you for one favor: If you have a blog or some way to send a link, please do this one simple thing. Put the link below in your next post or column and just simply ask to spread the word. If you can relate to growing up in a small town and that experience still means something to you - the information contained in the link will tell you all you need to know. If you have a friend who knows someone who knows someone who grew up in a small town - you're in the club as well.

It's been an interesting night of reading all the personal stories that have come out of Parkersburg, IA. The lump in my throat is still there. The final news article I read was the last thing I needed to know. The National Weather Service completed their investigation today. The tornado that struck those small towns in central Iowa was an EF5.

HOW TO HELP.