When I first moved here, I found that friends would treat it like a party. When the clouds start gathering and the storm warnings go out, they order a few pizzas and congregate at the biggest apartment (which isn't necessarily the safest apartment), and pregame until the news begins offering wall-to-wall coverage. You switch to meteorologist Rick Mitchell, where you gauge the severity of the storm according to how far he rolled up his sleeves (the higher the sleeves, the worse the weather).
When they get high enough that he starts asking the production assistants for help, you know it's time to get to the cellar.
Then, it's over to Mike Morgan, where the same "storm severity" measurement can be made according to the obnoxiousness of his tie. Finally, you park the television on Gary England, the most famous weatherman of all, and start drinking -- England has tracked tornadoes on TV for 40 years (he even appears in Twister).
You can actually feel the tornado coming. The morning before a tornado is almost always sunny and warm. Then the air becomes very still and heavy -- before the tornado forms, all wind dies.
Nanna's knee starts acting up. The cows give powdered milk.