I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

Late one evening, sirens blared while my wife and I slept.

This happened shortly after we moved to Nashville.

I merely turned over, but she shook me until I awoke, dazed, not really sure what was

going on.

Her voice firm and steady, she said, come on, let's go scrambling with blankets behind

us down the stairs, I fumbled, what's going on, where?

She yelled behind her, tornado warning to the basement, and at least she knew that much

to go to the lowest point in the house.

I probably would have crawled beneath the bed and fallen back asleep.

Having resided in Vermont for nearly two decades, I've experienced many winter storms.

I'm pretty skilled at preparing for a nor Easter, pillar candles, kerosene lamps, and flash

lights in case of a power outage, check, kindling and firewood for heat, check, a weather

radio, jugs of water, boxes of mac and cheese, and of course wine.

Check, check, check, and check.

I love to hunker down while the outside world is hushed by a blizzard of snow.

But a tornado, clueless, no idea.

We zipped it to the basement.

We positioned an unbagged futon on the floor from our recent move among boxes and furniture,

and began constructing our own tornado watch center.

We sat in the dark with only the glow of cell phones as our light source and listened

to local newscasters list off nearby counties and wind speeds.

...