I grew up outside of Kansas City, a proud part of what meteorologists call "Tornado Alley," where I dutifully participated in D.A.R.E. and daily traced out the lines that define suburbia. I've seen three tornados in the air, two on the ground, one of which hit my house -- most likely an F1 on the Fujita scale, but I was 10 and am now prone to exaggeration. On that night 20 tornados were spotted in my county -- a faux-coincidence I then found profoundly unsettling. On an unrelated note, the basement was always my favorite place in the house: it was damp, dark, full of wolf spiders, and safe from tornados. Safe from tornados and wolves. I also had nightmares about wolves, dressed in pin stripe suits and white fedoras -- gangster wolves*, like the henchmen in Who Framed Roger Rabbit. I then spent 5 years worth of my weekends slowly helping my dad replace fence posts left weakened by said supposed F1 tornado, and further weakened by the cows loitering in our "hobby-farm." The only stick I can drive is from a 1950 Ford Tractor, and even that, not well.
Then some other stuff happened and I ended up here, in Boston--a city that declares an emergency when threatened by a dusting of snow.
*OK, they're Weasels. Thanks for ruining my childhood, you kill-joys.