Some of my most terrified childhood moments were spent in a school hallway, head tucked under hands, face to foot with another child while tornado sirens screamed in the distance.

I remember panicked teachers nervously walking between us, too harshly yelling threats for silence. And I&8217;ll never forget one of our slightly stumpy high school football coaches running full speed down the hallway as Oxford&8217;s closest call with disaster whizzed right over our building. (It didn&8217;t touch down.)

But somewhere between age 17 and Monday afternoon I gave up my fear of weather. (In fact the newspaperwoman in me probably has a wrongly sick fascination with it.)

I knew that high-pitched squealing sound we heard in Ms. Bell&8217;s room wasn&8217;t the lights, the heater or the vents &8212; all things she and the students tried to blame for the noise.

But it didn&8217;t seem right to blurt out over a room of fourth-graders that the sound was, in fact, tornado sirens. No reason to scare them.

I knew the folks in the office were on top of it, and I know the district has a procedure in place for tornado warnings.

But none of that really mattered because only minutes later a teacher from across the hall burst in the room spoiling my secret and upping the anxiety level tenfold.

Only minutes away from dismissal time, plans changed quickly.

The intercom crackled to life and the secretary tried to calmly, but sternly take control. It was the urgency in her voice that would have scared a fourth-grade me.

She ordered teachers and students normally housed in the school&8217;s mobile units to immediately come inside. (Uh-oh.)

She said no one was to leave the building.

And in the background you could hear someone else receiving updated reports and making quick decisions. (Double uh-oh.)

Then everyone was ordered into the hallway.

They went fast, lined the cement walls and started ducking their heads.

With 20-plus students from eight-plus classes in our hallway the roar soon became deafening.

But one of the teachers had a voice to match it. Toss in the adrenaline she was feeling from her own fear, and she had the decibels to quiet the crowd.

Silence won out, except for a few relapses, and the children were left with nothing but their thoughts. I found a few worried faces.

But all in all, they seemed to take it pretty well. No one was crying &8212; we always had criers in my schools.

In fact, I think there were more worried teachers than students.

Come to think of it, I probably learned my fear from those screaming teachers in my life. The adults were scared, so I&8217;d better be too.

Children learn fear just like they learn anything else, by example. They pick up on stressed voices, worried looks and nervous fidgets.

If we&8217;re afraid, they&8217;re afraid.

I&8217;m not sure when or why I overcame my fear of weather. I remember sitting in a high school hallway watching a classmate down the hall hyperventilating with tears streaming down her face because of her fear.

And I remember thinking that was over the top. There was no reason to be that afraid.

No matter how much you want to, you can&8217;t control weather (I know, that&8217;s the scary part, but God&8217;s on top of it.) Be aware, be careful but just calm down.

Tornado sirens don&8217;t sound friendly. That&8217;s not their job. They are designed to put us on edge, to heighten our awareness.

But leave the edginess to the sirens, and remember that if you are calm the children around you will be calm to. And in a disaster, panic is sometimes the most dangerous thing.

Julie Finley is the managing editor for The Natchez Democrat. She writes a weekly column based on experiences with Marty Tuccio&8217;s homeroom class at McLaurin Elementary. She can be reached at 601-445-3551 or

julie.finley@natchezdemocrat.com

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