When you think of Tornado Alley, Cape Cod is not likely to be the first place that pops into your mind. Yet last week, that alley came as close to my home as it possibly could.
The Set Up
The previous weekend was unbearably hot—even by Cape Cod standards, with heat indexes in the triple digits. The forecasters were calling for a welcome break early in the week. Monday night, as we were headed for bed, a “tornado warning” alert came on my phone. We were experiencing a very intense thunderstorm that night, but that type of warning was completely unexpected.
The next morning, we woke to overcast skies and much cooler temps. Our day started in the usual fashion—walking the dog, breakfast, and then up to the office for work. We watched the news and they were showing footage of downed trees just over a mile from my home from the storm the night before. At that point, meteorologists weren’t completely sure that the damage had been caused by an actual tornado.
Second Warning
My wife and I had an 11 a.m. appointment in the next town, and afterward, I headed into town to swing by the bank—it was closed, which I thought was quite strange. Right about then, the light rain shower we’d been experiencing suddenly intensified, and my phone squawked with another tornado warning.
As I pulled onto the Mid-Cape Highway, the downpour increased to a point where windshield wipers became totally useless. Along with the increase in rain came a sudden increase in wind. As I drove along, I watched the wind shred branches 3 or 4 inches in diameter from trees like we would tear leaves from a plant stalk. The road was covered with leaves and wind-blown plant debris. At the exit before my usual one, I saw traffic stopped ahead so I veered onto the exit ramp. The wind was still gusting and the downpours stopped and started suddenly as if from a hose.
Roe Osborn
The oak tree in the foreground is about 20 feet to the left of t…
Coming Home
I drove down the side street that connected over to my street, winding my way around huge trees that had been blown over into the road. Oddly enough, trees seemed to be blown down in every direction as if the wind had blown from different angles at the same time. I followed a snake of vehicles making their way down to my road.
I was anxious to get home. I’d left the dog inside and left windows wide open. My street was pretty free of major debris and I figured we’d escaped the worst of it. My front yard was filled with small branches ripped down in the wind, but nothing major. The three large maples in front of the house had suffered only minor damage and the oak right next to the house was still in good shape.
Roe Osborn
The pieces of a sculpture called "Launch" lay in the ivy next to…
Mayhem in the Hollow
I pulled into my driveway that divides the house and lawn from a more natural depression that I call The Hollow where I display sculptures. The edge of the hollow is less than 50 feet from the house, and although the area around the house had largely been spared from the storm’s wrath, the wind had created havoc in the hollow. Locust trees and oaks more than a foot in diameter had snapped 15 feet off the ground. In other places, huge branches had been ripped from the biggest trees in the hollow and spread willy-nilly all through the floor of the hollow.
Three of my PVC-pipe sculptures had been smashed to pieces. Two of those lay under or near the offending trees, but the third had only one small branch nearby. Not only had the joints been separated on that piece, but the actual pipe itself had shattered. In one corner of the hollow, a locust tree had broken 15 or so feet above the ground and toppled over, neatly framing another sculpture roughly based on a stair stringer formula.
That evening, I took a drive through my town as well as two neighboring towns and was blown away by the extent of the damage. I saw every imaginable variety of tree knocked over, twisted, and broken. In some places, I saw trees with giant crescents of roots standing like giant earthen fans. In other places, trees were snapped off at ground level—no stumps, just the broken butt of the tree. There were trees that had crashed against houses and parked cars peeked out from under downed branches. I had indeed been very fortunate with damage occurring a safe distance from my house. I was also fortunate that my wife’s cottage two towns to the east was completely untouched by the storm, with uninterrupted electricity, TV, and internet.
Waiting for Power
The following day, we watched reports on the early morning news that showed glimpses of the devastation. Meteorologists had determined that there were actually two tornadoes, one of which had started very close to my home. A motel in West Yarmouth had had the entire roof peeled off in a matter of seconds.
I drove back home that morning by way of the dog park to take our dog, Ellie, for a walk. The road to our usual parking area was closed and a news crew from Boston was set up near the police barricade. After parking at the other access area, we walked in. Everyone that we encountered on our walk had storm stories. One woman, with a house on the lake near me, saw the funnel form and make its way across the lake. Her husband pleaded with her to get to the basement, but she refused, saying that she’d never get the chance to see anything like this again. As she watched, the wind lifted the glass top on her patio table and deposited it intact 50 feet away.
The Show Must Go On
I went by my house, which was still without power, and grabbed my camera and laptop. I set up shop at my wife’s cottage and got to work. We had been expecting a package to be delivered at my house, so my wife decided to swing by on her way home from work to see if it was there. When she got to our road, it was closed with a small armada of utility trucks parked just beyond the barricade. She called me right away. My band was playing that night in P-town, and I needed to pick up my instruments and equipment beforehand.
I stopped what I was doing and headed straight home, thinking through contingencies as I went. When I reached my road, it was still closed and the officer was adamant about not allowing anyone through. I asked if I could walk in and he reluctantly agreed, but I had to park at a school that was still quite a distance away. After parking the car, I jogged back to where the trucks were and worked my way through the maze of activity. At my house, (which was safely beyond the hubbub), I lashed my gear securely to a hand truck. Knots are one of my specialties—the very first article I wrote, in 1994, was about how to properly lash down cargo.
Roe Osborn
With the road closed to all access except foot traffic, the author was forced to lash his musical equipment to a hand truck in order to make a gig on the day after the storm. He wore the hard hat seen on top to get through the safety zone.
The school where I’d parked the car was about 3/4 of a mile from my house, and with no traffic on my road, the first half of the walk was pretty easy. I’d grabbed my hard hat, which not only makes sense when walking through a safety zone, but it also acts like a passport of sorts for walking through the hive of utility workers. The linemen seemed to ignore me as I passed through the maze dragging the hand truck in one hand and carrying my guitar case in the other. At the police barricade, the officer was sitting in the squad car apparently on break, and didn’t budge to stop traffic to help this pedestrian oddity across the street. The rest of the trip to the school was more precarious. There were no sidewalks, so I was forced to make my way along the side of the road hugging the white line while trying to keep the hand truck steady. I finally got to the car, loaded the equipment in the back along with my trusty hand truck, and made it to the gig with time to spare.
Plague of the Locusts
The next day, I got back to the house and to my relief, the power had been restored along with the cable and internet. The only casualty was my photo server, which had stopped communicating with my computer.
Roe Osborn
After tearing up the Hollow, the twister jumped over the road and slammed two large trees into a neighbor's house.
I finally got to take a walk through my immediate neighborhood and really take a close look at the damage. To the west of my property, there was almost no tree damage. A few branches here and there but nothing major. My hollow was the first site of real damage—probably the first place the twister had touched down. According to the meteorologists, the tornado had “hopped” instead of just cutting a straight path. The power lines were still intact along the road, but just a few feet beyond the road, two large black locust trees had smashed into a house to the northeast.
As if the broken trees weren’t enough, the ground everywhere seemed littered with tiny locust branches. The tiny leaves are quick to wilt and dry, leaving little crispy clusters of branches that will have to be picked up. Driving around, the locusts were far and away the most common tree species to sustain damage. As messy as they are, black locust is one of the most rot-resistant native species that we have on the Cape, and I plan to save the locust trunks to use as fence posts.
Looking Back Lucky
I walked back through the hollow, looking at the broken trees and smashed sculptures. This wasn’t the first time Mother Nature had targeted my work, although in the past, damage was usually caused by snow-laden branches in the winter. I’m beginning to think that she must have disdain for abstract art. A friend suggested that it’s just confirmation that art really is all about the process. Whatever her motivation, I’m relieved that she took her anger out on my art and spared my home as well as the other buildings on the property. I may or may not repair the broken sculptures after I clear away the fallen trees and limbs. I guess it depends on how badly the pieces are damaged and whether I just decide to cut my losses and move on in my artistic process.
But while all this is pretty exciting for Cape Cod, these twisters are small potatoes compared with the devastation that tornadoes cause in the Midwest and South. Up against the monsters that barrel through those areas on a regular basis, these barely qualify to be called tornadoes. Still, I hope that I never have to go through an event like that again.
