‘Aunty Em!’

Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.

I'm a big ol' believer in global warming. Indeed I believe we are reaping what we have sown. That's just my opinion, well, and a few thousand scientists. Regardless if you think it's merely a blip on the planet's history, the fact is that the long term trend shows us getting warmer, faster. The dire predictions of melting ice caps, stranded polar bears, dreadful droughts and frequent forest fires haven't really touched us here in the foothills.

Until a few days ago.

Tornado warnings on New Year's? And then, again, a few days later?

Sure, say climatologists. Warm balmy air, hitting cooler air, means intense weather. It used to be confined to the spring. Face it, Toto, there's a whole new world unfolding out there for all of us. We don't even have to drive our Escalades to see it!

I consider myself pretty much a survivor of scary phenomenas. In 1994, Paul and I rock and rolled through the catastrophic Northridge Earthquake. Allright, screamed like little girls. Our belongings were hurled everywhere. I must say, the living room looked so much better! Nothing was broken, even in the kitchen. Actually, that's rather a sad commentary to be in one's thirties and possess nonbreakable place settings and glassware.

On the heels of the earthquake was the Malibu Fires. I was utterly panic stricken. It had been a normal day and I was adjacent to Malibu in Hidden Valley (no, it has nothing to do with salad dressing), giving my horses their daily work when, suddenly, like a javelin, tongues of fire appeared a couple of ridges away from the barn. "Dear God!" I cried to our seasoned groom, Jose. "Do we need to get these horses out? How far away is that?" Jose shook his head in a "been there, done that" sort of way. "No, no," he replied. "we're fine. That's very far away."

In twenty minutes, the fire had leapt over hills and the flames were sixty feet high. Five fire engines screamed down our road towards the barn. We were the last farm on a dead end road. Behind us were seven miles of ridges and the Pacific. In front of us were forty mph winds. "You can't leave." ordered one fireman, most calmly, I recall. "The fire has jumped the road and is burning on both sides and the road is closed." When I pointed out the enormous propane tank behind the newly constructed home on the property, I was amazed how quickly men, loaded down with gear, could move.

Both stories had good endings. I was also in the middle of the Rodney King riots, but I'll save that for another column. Suffice it to say that trying to load two, screaming, spitting, cats in a Saab with a dumpster on fire behind you and windows smashing in front of you, just to try and get the hell out of town, is not the way I had intended to spend the evening.

All of this brings me to our recent tornado warnings. I don't like them. At all. Honestly, I'd rather be in an earthquake. I don't want to "see" what may potentially kill me.

And my biggest fear of all is spluttering to a local reporter with a microphone, "It sounded jest lika Freight Train!" I don't care who you are, you'll end up saying that. With my hand on my heart, a few weeks ago, CNN reported a freak tornado spawning havoc down a London street and the first person they interviewed, was an English woman who cried, "It was terribly frightening. It sounded rather like a freight train!"

And for a couple of seconds, I swear she sounded southern!