![]() ![]() "Get under the stairwell," he ordered his wife, their grown daughter and son-in-law. Her husband, Joe Crosthwait, who'd been in the driveway, rushed into the house. "I thought, 'I better get on my shoes.'" She slipped on her sneakers and kept watching her TV show. Janece Crosthwait took shelter under a stairwell: "I knew my house was getting torn to pieces." It was such nonsense she can't even remember now what show it was. Soon after, the first siren sounded.Ībout a mile from Mason's house, Janece Crosthwait was on her couch, watching some lazy Sunday show on cable. In only seconds, the sprinkle that had sent her boyfriend into the garage to grill burgers became a vicious, heavy pour. She had laid the last blanket when the sky turned black. "I wasn't really thinking anything except I'm a mom and now I do this." "I always watched my mom do this when I was growing up and this is what you just did," she said. She went to a closet, pulled out blankets and lined her bathtub. The approaching storm was already knocking out power in other parts of town.īack at Mason's house, the food out, the burgers almost done, Erin Mason took care of another routine chore that comes with Midwestern storms. "Awesomeness" he posted on Facebook, along with a photo of a big black blob and a bright, freaky light menacing the skyline. The 26-year-old attorney had been on his iPhone most of the day searching for weather updates and texting with his dad, another weather geek. He was up there checking out the view at five minutes until 5. Just to the north along Joplin's Main Street, Zach Tusinger could see the entire city from the rooftop of his downtown loft. The lawn was freshly cut and the house was spotless. He pushed a For Sale sign deeper into the ground. The 30-year-old roofer had no delusions about the market, but he felt optimistic. He'd put the one-bedroom he shared with his girlfriend, Alexandra, and their 2-year-old daughter Sophie up for sale a week before in the hopes of moving to Kansas City, where Alexandra had been accepted in a doctoral program. You know, check in."ĭown Mason's street, past several yellow and blue clapboard houses, Jared Hatfield welcomed people to his open house. ![]() "We'll listen to the news a little here and there. "We have storms here all the time," she thought. Zach Tusinger took this photo from the roof of his downtown loft as the tornado approached Joplin. A storm was probably coming, but so what? He'd pulled the grill inside because it had started to sprinkle. Shawn Stephens, Mason's boyfriend and Isabella's father, flipped burgers in the garage. Mason's 2-year-old daughter Isabella giggled in a highchair. It was a gorgeous day, perfect for a barbecue. They had 24 minutes before touchdown, before the tornado would be on top of them.Įrin Mason had been in her kitchen gossiping with a few friends, laughing, seasoning green beans. Or word that a missing mom or uncle or high school buddy has been found.Ĭonventional time, counted in minutes, stopped at 5:17 p.m., when the National Weather Service issued a tornado warning for Joplin, triggering the city's sirens. It's now a long wait, for insurance checks or calls about whether jobs still exist. The white noise of electricity was replaced by an eerie quiet - amplifying the sound of feet crunching concrete as people emerged, zombified, wandering along streets that ran together and into the horizon, no longer distinguishable from one another.Īs rescue workers continue to find bodies - 125 at latest count - time has become something else in Joplin. Dust and insulation particles hung in the heavy, humid air. Gnarled metal car frames were wedged on roofs. Within a matter of minutes, it leveled entire blocks, smashing miles of homes to splinters.Īre you in Joplin? Share your photos and video from the scene, but please stay safe.Įvergreens and sycamores that stood for generations were decapitated. In the middle of a clear, sunny afternoon, the deadliest recorded tornado in U.S. They jog around their neighborhoods, absent-mindedly pleased that their headphones help drown out the annoying screech of those damn sirens.Įvery day in cities and towns across the Midwest, the routine test of an emergency system intended to save lives often gets ignored.īut after Sunday, no one in this college town of 50,000 is likely to dismiss a siren's call again. They pour coffee and wake their kids to the head-rattling blare. They take showers listening to the sirens. Joplin, Missouri (CNN) - Every Monday, people who live in Joplin, Missouri, begin their week with the sound of tornado sirens. Here are the stories of some of those who survived the deadliest U.S.In that time, people took shelter in bathtubs and closets, under stairs and inside shops.Residents of Joplin, Missouri, had 24 minutes between the tornado warning and touchdown. ![]()
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