Are we not
in Kansas anymore?

Monday night’s thunderstorms may have done as much damage to residents’ nerves as they did to buildings, trees, and crops.

Confused Marion residents, accustomed to an actual tornado sounding only when an actual tornado is actually imminent, spent seven minutes listening to — but not fully understanding — at least three different siren blasts.

Sirens are designed to be heard only outdoors, not within houses. But many hear them in their homes and regard them as a final warning. Forget the dire hand-wringing of TV meteorologists and the incessant beeping of cell phones. Sirens mean we’re serious: Get thee to thy shelter!

Thinking of sirens that way makes some sense. If sirens were supposed to warn only those outdoors, exactly who are they warning — people without sense to come in out of the rain? By the time sirens blare, rain typically is coming down in sheets, lightning is making people forget how often wind turbines blink, and winds are making them wonder whether turbine blades will fly off.

Regarding sirens as final, quasi-official warnings has become a tradition. A saying like “better safe than sorry” might justify increasing their use, but a more relevant reference may be to “the boy who cried wolf.” In a population accustomed to sirens being the last line of defense, making them become the first line could diminish their value.

We Kansans are a hearty lot — particularly those of us who spent what seems like most of our youth cowering in whatever corner of a basement was in vogue before radar and spotters began to more accurately predict where a tornado might strike.

We also used to have cards stuck on refrigerator doors, decoding what siren blasts meant. The code has changed over the years, but many have never discovered the changes. For the record, a five-minute blast was supposed to mean take cover. Two separate one-minute blasts were supposed to mean the threat had passed. Monday night, many interpreted what might have been intended as “all clear” as meaning more storms were coming. But perhaps they actually did.

Before the next line of thunderstorms rakes our county, we can only hope the partly clouded understanding of what sirens mean clears up. Otherwise, some of us may become either paranoid or so addled into complacence that we end up taking an unexpected trip to Oz.

— Eric Meyer