The Orlando Sentinel from Orlando, Florida • Page 25

A night of ury CENTRAL s3 Weaker mobile homes fall to tornadoes Dorothy Thomas, 66, was By Mary Shanklin a security guard at Tupperware in Osceola County. Her son Michael, 38, used to drive a mono OF THE SENTINEL STAFF rail train at Walt Disney World. Both died in the storm that ripped into their home at 3179 Moon Light Way, where they had lived since June 1990. teorologist Scott Spratt in Orlando. High winds can hit anywhere.

But, he added, people may believe high winds target trailer parks because that's where the worst damage occurs. "You hear jokes about it in just about every part of the country," Spratt said. "But it's mainly that the construction standards for mobile homes are not as strict as they are for site-built houses." Wind research consultant Richard Marshall said it is a matter of the strong buildings surviving. "It's a matter of natural selection," Marshall said from his office in Washington, D.C. "You have a broad strip of damaging wind, and the weak buildings are going to Another factor linking manufactured houses and twisters is that mobile home parks are usually built in rural areas with little to buffer them from strong winds, Williams said.

Combine that with the fact that most land is rural and it's no surprise that mobile homes get hit, said Greg Golgowski, deputy executive director of the East Central Florida Regional Planning Council. "It's easier to hit the body of the target than the bull's-eye," Golgowski said. In Florida, 10 percent of houses are mobile homes, according to the 1990 U.S. Census. Central Florida numbers vary by county, with 36 percent in Lake and 4 percent in Seminole.

show their weaknesses a lot more than the better-constructed buildings." Many people think manufactured housing is haunted by tornadoes, in part, because older models are more vulnerable to wind damage, said Frank Williams, executive director of the Florida Manufactured Housing Association. Also, Williams added, the media has perpetuated the idea that trailers and tornadoes go together because such devastation makes headlines. On Monday, facing 200-mph winds, even the strongest houses would have buckled, Williams said. It would take an underground bunker or concrete fortress without windows to stand up to that, he said. They never got out of their Fact or fiction? If a tornado strikes, odds are it will hit a mobile home park.

That common perception seemed to be fact early Monday. Almost all of Osceola County's tornado fatalities happened in mobile home parks. In comparison, the tornado also went through a nearby neighborhood, damaging some houses but not causing any deaths. While it might seem that mobile homes are nature's targets, experts beg to differ. It's fiction that tornadoes take aim at trailers, said National Weather Service me beds," said neighbor Bob Ben-ner.

"You couldn't want better neighbors. Mike was a diabetic and had a kidney transplant that failed. But he and his mother were really pumped up about his getting another transplant." The son's fiancee works at a dialysis clinic and went to the street Monday to look for him when he missed his morning ap pointment. Mother and son moved to 1J2 A ri Florida from Utah in 1989. Last year they bought two new cars, a Mustang and a Thunderbird.

Michael Ramirez, 50, was Something just seemed wrong at camp Ponderosa managers count losses in number of friends a licensed real estate salesman who split his time between roofing jobs and work in the time-share industry. He died with his son and a fellow roofer. Ramirez, who was divorced, had just paid off his home, a mobile home on Wake Up Court, tinkered with cars, wrote music, played the piano and guitar and indulged his passion for reading. His 23-year-old son, Craig Paulsen, had recently returned from a stint By Michael McLeod OF THE SENTINEL STAFF in the U.S. Army and was living with his father while attending Valencia Community College.

A 1993 graduate of Gateway High School, he hoped to become an Paulsen engineer. He and his father were "the best of friends," said one family friend. The two were entertaining an other roofer, Joe McAlister, 22, shortly after 11:30 p.m. Sunday its; fr-sFs when the home disappeared in a He looked out his window and saw a funnel cloud forming. "It was green and black and huge at its base about 50 yards," he guessed.

"You could see it in the flashes of lightning. "It was not one of those little ones like you see on TV Dude, this was massive," he said. He had a clear view, across a lawn behind the stadium, and he could see where it was headed: first toward a corner convenience store and then toward the Ponderosa. "Then I lost sight of it," he said. "I couldn't see it any more.

But I knew what it was doing." Quadros and Clark stayed on the floor until the wind died down. "It was only 10 seconds," Quadros remembered, "but it was 10 seconds that went on and on and on." By the time they emerged, the campground had been transformed. Trailers were flipped upside down and ripped apart or had disappeared altogether. The half-dozen RVs that were usually lined up nearby were gone, shoved together into an improbable jumble at the far end of the road. When Quadros and Clark reached the wreckage, they heard tapping from somewhere inside.

Quadros scrambled to get as close as she could to the noise and discovered it was "Miss Laura," Laura Christiana, 75, a longtime resident. She was covered in so much rubble that Quadros could only get close enough to hold her hand. Miss Laura complained of the pain and the cold. Quadros talked to her softly until emergency crews arrived. She died later at the hospital.

For the rest of the night the managers picked their way through the remains of the campground, looking for people. There were other tapping noises, but -v it VZl Early Monday, Maria Quadros heard a noise that puzzled her. It was 12:45 a.m. Strange. At that time of night, the Ponderosa RV Park was usually very quiet.

She stood by the plate-glass door of her bedroom. Rain pelted the door, but there was something else. She stared out into the darkness, listening. For nearly two years, Quadros had managed the campground with a friend, Ron Clark. They lived in an apartment just behind the office and general store.

In the darkness just outside, about 300 people were staying in RVs, tents and trailers tucked under a stand of tall pines. Quadros had become close to many of those people snowbirds from the North, retirees from Texas who follow the Houston Astros during spring training in nearby Osceola County Stadium. She and Clark socialized with them at square dances and pot lucks. It was like being surrounded by grandmothers and grandfathers. Then came the odd thrumming noise that woke Quadros early Monday.

A moment later, it woke Clark. Groggy as he was, he reacted instinctively. "Tornado!" he shouted. He threw her to the floor behind their bed just as the wind hit full force and shattered the sliding-glass door. Florida Christian College is just across the street from the Ponderosa.

The school has about 180 students, many living in dorms. Aaron Sterner, a junior from Gaines- ville, was getting home from his job as a server at Steak and Ale Restaurant when he noticed a shift in the wind. tornado, leaving only tumbled cars and the concrete staircase to the missing front door. "Life was just starting to get sweet for him," friend and coworker Randy Porter said of Ramirez. "He was just so happy right now." Laura Christiana, 75, gravely injured when the tornado ripped apart 1 wl J.i.i1v.---y-T.- her mobile home, RED HUBEfVTHE ORLANDO SENTINEL spoke to her Blown everywhere.

RVs lie destroyed at the Ponderosa RV Park in Osceola County. son by cellular telephone on her way to the hospital: She told him venience store had been flattened. Several blankets had been left there, balled up by emergency workers who had used them to coyer corpses. Overhead almost all of the pine trees had been snapped into splintered stalks 20 feet high. Quadros looked around.

"Unless you are heartless," she said, "you have to just cry." and Clark were searching through the rubble of the camp office, trying to find a computer disk that would help rescue workers determine how many people had been staying in the campground when the tornado hit. Quadros looked around at the damage the daylight revealed. A wall around the complex had collapsed. Down the street, the con some died away before they could reach them. They found one man simply standing on the top of wreckage that had once been his trailer, unharmed but dazed.

Campers in flimsy tents had survived next to neighbors in mobile homes who had not. A dog had been tied to a tree. The tree was gone, the dog was fine. Late Monday morning, Quadros she loved him. "I feel blessed be cause at Christiana least I talked to her," Rog er Christiana said Monday as he sorted through the debris of the Ponderosa RV Park, where his mother had lived for five years.

They looked for comfort, saw only strangers Born in Philadelphia, she was involved in community work, the First Church of the Nazarene and By Chris Cobbs "If I had stood up, I probably would not be here," Deitering said. "I was very fortu the Free Methodist Church, both OF THE SENTINEL STAFF in Kissimmee. Roger Lewis, pastor of the Free Methodist Church, said she nate." The storm lasted only seconds, but the horrible memories lingered. "Glass was breaking everywhere and I said to my husband, 'We're said Rachel Cullum, a winter visitor from Ohio. Another survivor, John Pimentel, said was a loyal member of the church and served as director of adult activities for a time.

longing that comes from not knowing the neighbors. "We just got here Saturday from London, Ontario," said Judy Huntington, huddled next to her husband, Bryce, near the entrance to the park. The couple saw people trapped near their camper but didn't know their names. Officials said the problem of identifying the victims was likely to be compounded by the transient nature of the mobile home and RV campground, which is near Florida's Turnpike in Osceola County. Ninety minutes after the storm hit, the scene resembled a war zone.

Emergency vehicles lined the road outside the en trance to the park. "We think we know some of the victims, but we can't tell because their homes are not there anymore," said Paul and Pauline Henry, who had been at Ponderosa for several months. Near him lay Eileen Deitering, 80, both of her arms a bloody mess after a tree fell on her trailer. She said she was trapped for an hour before someone pulled her out. A tree crashed through her home and down onto her body just as she was trying to climb out of bed.

In retrospect, Deitering said not being able to get out of bed may have saved her life. "We're going to miss her," Lewis he prayed as he lay face down on the floor said. KISSIMMEE They had come to Florida for a few weeks' respite from the snows of faraway places such as Ohio and Massachusetts. As a result, many of the winter visitors at the Ponderosa RV Park were relative strangers to each other when their temporary vacation home was transformed into one of the deadliest spots in Central Florida early Monday morning. Adding to the horror they felt when a tornado touched down was the lack of be and felt his mobile home disintegrating.

"Good Lord, forgive me," he said, recalling the words. "I thought it was the end." Compiled by Henry Curtis, Roger Roy, Dan Tracy and Debbie Salamone Tanya Bonner of the Sentinel staff of the Sentinel contributed to this report. Storm leaves behind little at campground besides confusion you!" Viner yelled. One by one, the children answered. They gathered and found a window wide enough to crawl through.

Barefoot, they waded through water and broken glass to rescue workers. Yvonne Bancroft lived in the KISSIMMEE Angie Viner felt the floor elevate and then heard the glass shatter. "Hit the floor," she screamed. And then her trailer began to spin, end over end, crashing across the ground. The refrigerator landed on Viner and her young daughter.

She couldn't push it off, not without knowing whom she might push it on. Her sister was in the Ponderosa RV Park trailer along with four other children. Despite the cold rain blasting through the broken windows, despite the blackness, despite not knowing whether her other children were dead, she repeated: Do not panic. She freed herself and her daughter. SENTINEL COLUMNIST had.

They did not tell him she was dead. Ten hours after the tornado passed, Gerda Savickis sat in the emergency shelter at Lakeview Elementary School in St. Cloud. Her false teeth were back in the rubble along with what little else she owned. There were five volunteers to every victim, but the old woman sat alone.

"My windows blew out and something hit the roof," she said. "It was so dark I couldn't see anything. They took my sister to a black van." Tears started to form. "She is in critical care somewhere in Orlando," she said. Three little girls walked up and gave her a small stuffed animal, a lamb.

Gerda Savickis hugged it. "When I have a new home, God willing, I'll put it in safe place." neighbors' gashes and stitched them with makeshift butterfly strips made from bandages and tape. Thomas and Beverly Jackson were sleeping in their tent. She heard the tornado first. She went to wake him.

At that moment, the tent split open and Thomas disappeared. She grabbed at where he had been. Thomas might have ended up on the turnpike, but the mud-covered roots of a toppled tree caught him like a catcher's mitt snares a fastball. Beverly then went airborne. She collided with a fence.

She yelled for Thomas, thinking at first that he was dead. They made it to shelter at a campground bathroom. On the way she saw a man trapped under trailer debris. At least a dozen people were trying to lift it off him. His screams were so awAil that even in the bathroom, behind a closed door, Beverly could hear him.

Tom Kelley was sleeping in a tent with his son. The tornado uprooted the tent, wrapped them up in it like a burrito and tossed them into a car. The impact knocked Kelley's shoulder out of joint, but his son wasn't hurt. Leroy and Jeanette Hutson lived in a trailer that was spared. They walked out into the darkness, offering help.

It was eerie, the blackness pierced only by the flashlight beams of residents and rescue workers. They went from trailer to trailer looking for survivors. Rescuers broke through windows to get people out of trailers that had been crushed. They comforted one man who sat chilled in the rain. He waited to know whether anyone had setyl'his wife.

They back of the trailer park, an area that was spared. The retired pediatrics nurse made her way to the recreation center, where she met a man who said he had medical training in the Special Forces in Vietnam. He had two medical kits. Bancroft and the man clean! their She located her sister, shouting above the bedlam. It was time for inventory.

"Shout out you name so we can fia.