The blasting siren traveled to my six year-old ears, reverberating in every direction inside my skull.  Maggie looked to the sky, pulling a Pall Mall out of the tanned, ancient folds protecting her toothless gums and declared, “There’s a tornado com’n!” Terror filled me.  I ran in high gear, next door to my two-story red sandpaper-sided house and straight to my personal fallout shelter.  Sitting on bathroom scales stuffed between the pipes of our small sink and stained bathtub, I clasped my ears and sobbed, knowing I would be blown to bits.  I was a dramatic child.  Like “the chicken or the egg” question, I’m not sure which came first:…