Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
I've been watching the Showtime series Weeds on Netflix. At one point in the show, the bad guys managed to dig a tunnel between Mexico and the U.S. to bring over drugs, but when they started bringing over young girls, it got to be too much for Nancy, who ratted them out, though she has increasingly become a bad guy, too.
The tunnel on the show reminded me of the tunnels under my elementary school, which I presume were not used for drug trafficking. When we had a tornado drill, or an actual tornado warning, large panels were removed from the floor and we had to jump down into the tunnels. No steps led down to them.
The tunnels were concrete all around. There was no place to sit down. So we'd all be packed in down there, and before long a teacher would scream, BE QUIET! IF WE REALLY HAD A TORNADO WE WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO HEAR THE RADIO.
Silence would reign for about five seconds and then the murmuring would begin again and the murmuring would quickly become a roar.
After a while the drill would be over or the all clear siren would blow, and it would be time to get out of the tunnel. I really hated that part. Two adults would be standing on each side of the opening and they would each grab one of our hands and they'd haul us out. It was creepy and uncomfortable. I always felt scared when we went in the tunnel. I wasn't afraid of a tornado. I was scared of getting back out. Would those people be able to grab my hands? What if they dropped me? What if it was my turn and they just ignored me? What if somebody pushed me out of the way and I fell and everybody stepped on me on their way out of the tunnel and I got left behind?
I'm surprised I'm not living in a tunnel under an old elementary school in Kansas today.
Infinities of love,