Seeking shelter in my past was often a useful move when troubles pursued me. Take tornadoes: These days parts of the country have been hounded by tornadoes, making me recall my history with them. Growing up, I was told, “Run at right angles from tornadoes.” A puzzling piece of advice for a lad who had heard of angles but was probably thinking of angels. If I were ever to meet an angel, I’d probably run in any direction. I’d seen pictures of angels in illustrated pages of the Bible and wasn’t too keen on meeting one. All those wings, halos and pasted-on smiles I found menacing. Angels frightened me more than tornadoes.

Soon I experienced a tornado at age six when around seven in the evening the town’s siren atop the water tower began blaring. A most unusual occurrence, but since the sky was cloudy and rain started to fall, my father told us to run across the street and duck into the Batemans’ cellar. We were met there by John and Lizzy Bateman, with John opening the door, the five of us clamoring down the steps into the musty underground. John pulled the door closed. We stood there waiting for our houses to be swept into southwest Iowa and probably neighboring Illinois.

“Climb into the potato bin, Mike,” Lizzy said.

My Dad hoisted me into it, scraping my head on the concrete ceiling. I sat on the knobby potatoes. No one talked. I could imagine my mother bursting into a prayer for our safety, but she didn’t. Perhaps she already pictured us in a dank and clammy hell, the fervent prayer of a righteous woman availing nothing.

Then years later after moving to Springfield while I was to read a paper in St. Louis at a professional meeting — taking my daughter to visit with her past neighborhood friends — I received a call from my neighbor that a tornado had swept through our street uprooting trees, ripping off some roofs and causing considerable damage.

“Mike,” he said, “it’s the real thing.”

“Everyone OK?” I asked.

“Yes, but your wife and son are a bit shaken up. Part of your roof is damaged. Better come on home.”

I left without attending the meeting and was shocked to see the devastation in our neighborhood. The next day while atop the roof placing plastic coverings there, sirens went off. My wife in the yard implored me to come down. “It’s safer down here,” she said. I climbed down. Nothing else happened. We were safe.

I have a healthy respect for the violence tornadoes cause. Unexpected violence. Often deadly violence.

I was once the recipient of personal violence. I came out battered but not permanently injured. I fought and, largely, succeeded. Physically. I’ve come to realize more and more about the seriousness of violence inflicted on others, the effects and consequences that can be lasting in varying degrees. Mental and emotional scars sometimes remain hidden. War violence on massive levels leaves many with unresolved traumas, physical and mental.

Seeking shelter from nature’s ravages is one thing; get out of harm’s way. But seeking shelter from the effects of personal violence can often elicit unusual consequences. Where does one turn? Some turn inward. Some seek social isolation. Some hide within compulsions and odd behaviors — balms that might appear to work, but sometimes don’t. Those who seek solitude and detachment resulting from such violence may appear aloof or even haughty. But the tired old saying I once heard might be best remembered for those seeking shelter: Whatever works.

Michael Pulley lives in Springfield. He can be reached at mpulley634@gmail.com.

This article originally appeared on Springfield News-Leader: Michael Pulley: Seeking shelter during storm season