Again, it was Moore.
For the third time in less than 15 years, residents of this city of about 60,000 must mourn their dead, help the living and pick up the pieces of shattered lives that now lay in a field of wreckage.
The devastation caused by the tornado that blew through Moore on Monday afternoon is painfully familiar. In 1999, and again in 2003, tornados laid waste to a sizeable swath of the city.
At last count, at least 24 lost their lives, including 10 children. The reality of the tragedy hung heavy over all who wandered through the devastation on Monday, plus those transfixed in front of it the next day, wondering why — and looking for what and whom could be saved.
Day 1
In the moments after the EF5 tornado had left, there was stunned confusion.
People flooded from once-intact neighborhoods onto S.W. 134th Street — refugees trying to make sense of what had just happened. Each person momentarily had to come to terms with what he or she had lived through and was seeing.
The storm had passed. The rain moved east. The sun was coming out. The massive tornado that had caused so much death and destruction had evaporated, as if it never existed.
Communication was hampered by jammed phone lines. Texting was hit-and-miss. Being able to get a cell phone call through seemed a small miracle.
At S.W. 134th and Western, a young girl holding her mother’s hand was crying, her face contorted in fear and hurt. Further east, a woman in tears spoke on a cell phone she had somehow gotten to work. Her mother was in one of the houses hit by the twister. She didn’t know if she was alive.
One man who gave his name as Oliver walked the street to check on his father near the hardest-hit area. His father lived in a mobile home. Oliver had not heard from him. He remained composed, but his calm look was belied by a determined stride.
Some nervously smoked cigarettes. Others huddled with family and friends along the road.
Police refused to let most non-emergency vehicles down the streets into the heart of the devastation.
Officers erected a cordon at S.W. 139th Street and Santa Fe Avenue, not allowing anyone to proceed unless they produced identification proving they lived there.
“If you have an ID, we’ll let you in,” Oklahoma City Police Officer C. Barnes told one woman. “Otherwise, you’ll have to wait. We’re trying to get everyone out of there.
“We’re going to deal with the humans first. The animals will be next,” Barnes told another person who was worried about her pet.
In other spots, people set off toward the damage on foot. And walk they did, for miles.
People who lived in nearby areas untouched by the storm walked against the flow of refugees, wanting to help in some way.
At points along Santa Fe Avenue, volunteers handed out bottled water, snack food and first aid supplies.
“We live a little ways up north,” said James Rey, who along with Leah Olwell rounded up snacks and emergency supplies to give to victims. “We were out and about and we happened to see what was going on, and we decided to help out.”
“It’s just the right thing to do,” said Olwell.
Outside Highland West Junior High School, several teachers were handing out water nearly four hours after the tornado swept through.
Although the school was not hit, some students were still stranded there, waiting for their parents to pick them up.
“We’ll be here until the last kids go home,” said geography teacher Chris Wright.
South of 134th Street and east of Santa Fe Avenue, the wreckage began to appear.
It was subtle at first – grass and mud spattered on streets, houses and cars. Then, a downed power line or a fallen tree. And always the constant flow of people.
Soon it got worse.
Near Penn Lane, the full devastation came into sharp focus.
Suburbia was now a debris field, a replica of the old photos of war-torn European cities during World War II. Once-cheerful houses and shiny cars were heaps of twisted scrap and matchsticks.
Trees were broken and stripped of bark. Their leaves were now scraps of iron, tin and insulation.
Power lines were strewn like garland over the twisted remains of homes. Broken timbers emitted the sweet smell of a lumberyard, mixed with a strong odor of natural gas.
No birds sang. There was only the ever-present howl of sirens and revving of bulldozer and backhoe engines.
Some people sat on mounds of tangled destruction that had been their homes, weeping.
And yet there was life among the chaos. First responders, National Guard troops and citizens busied themselves, picking up the pieces and searching for survivors.
One older man wearing blue coveralls stood atop a six-foot pile of wood and steel, once his home, looking for what he could salvage. He looked like a scarecrow guarding a field.
“Do you need any help?” one person asked.
The man looked up, not saying a word, then returned to sifting.
A bald, stocky man nearby said he had already asked the man if he needed help and got the same response.
The bald man said he had been helping search the rubble of the nearby Plaza Towers Elementary School. When rescuers started finding bodies, they told the civilians to leave.
Further down the street, Oliver, who had walked for more than two miles to check on his dad in the mobile home, found his sisters – alive and safe.
He went on to his father’s mobile home — and found him safe. The father and other residents in the trailer park had fled to the nearby Walmart when they heard the tornado coming. Oliver hugged his dad and they spoke in Spanish.
The mobile home itself was in relatively decent shape, with minor exterior damage, although all windows were busted.
Someone picked up a faded picture from the ground and asked Oliver’s father if it was his. The old man shook his head and said no, that he had found other people’s pictures in his yard.
Walking to a trash can, the old man plucked out a photo and handed it to the bystander, grinning. It was a photograph of a pretty girl in a blue bikini standing on a sunny beach. No one knew who the girl or the photo’s owner was.
Night began to fall. Workers pressed on, searching. More than 100 people would be found that night — some alive, others not. It began to rain.
Day Two
In the morning light, crews were still digging, still searching.
The death toll, which had fluctuated wildly on the first day, had gone down to 24, according to the State Medical Examiner’s Office.
Survivors were still there. The media presence had swelled.
Satellite trucks blanketed the area. Matt Lauer and Al Roker of NBC’s Today show had found a perch amid the ruins for stand-ups, as had NBC’s Chris Jansing. Media were mostly confined to an area just west of the Warren Theatre, which, despite taking a nearly direct hit, was still standing.
Just to the north, the Moore Medical Center stood in complete ruin.
To the east, rescue teams with dogs scoured a destroyed business, looking for survivors.
Up the street, a church steeple sat impaled in the ground. Scores of cars sat crumpled, many tossed into buildings.
Maegan Jackson and Kaitlyn Newburger had tried to get to their house in the middle of the destruction, but were turned away by authorities.
When asked what she expected to find, Jackson, standing near her neighborhood, said, “Not this.”
“We were going back to nothing,” Newburger said. “Isn’t this crazy? Why are we here?”
As the two walked, they saw a dog wandering and were able to form a makeshift leash using an Ethernet cable. The two were searching for the dog’s owner when Melody Hughes saw them.
Hughes, who works in a doctor’s office, had spent the night in a makeshift triage center at the Warren Theatre. She had been watching her friend’s dogs at her house, which was spared. One dog, Toby, had escaped.
It was Toby that Jackson and Newburger had found. Hughes grew tearful. “He was scared by the storms and bolted,” she said.
Meanwhile, Jessica and Tyler Ellerd were digging through what was left of their house.
Her family had set up a tent just off Telephone Road and spent the night there. They were worried looters might strike.
Jessica’s father was at home when the tornado hit and hid in the bathroom to survive.
“It makes you feel blessed,” Ellerd said. She gestured toward the house. “This is just stuff.”
Still, she turned back to the broken pile of boards and began trying to find anything she could save.
Oklahoma Watch writer Warren Vieth contributed to this story.
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