By: Someone Who’s Definitely Not Jeff Stoner
Picture this: It’s a sunny summer day in Christian County. A bouncy house gently inflates next to a corn dog stand, toddlers are frolicking near a pony ride, and Jeff Stoner—the poor man trying to stop your festival from turning into a FEMA episode—is squinting nervously at the sky like it owes him money.
Welcome to the adrenaline-fueled, cotton-candy-scented world of Emergency Management meets Event Planning, where one misplaced lightning bolt can ruin more than just your $5 lemonade.
Let’s talk about the Christian County Emergency Management Agency (CCEMA), that unsung band of local heroes who make sure your Fourth of July doesn’t turn into a sequel of Twister. You think it’s just “sirens and sandbags”? Oh no, sweet summer child. It’s coordination chaos, strategic snack interruption planning, and convincing Aunt Patty that no, the tornado sirens are not just for decoration.
Weather or Not, Here They Come
You know who doesn’t get enough credit? The people who spend 9 months planning for one weekend that might get cancelled because God decided to make it “lightly apocalyptic.”
Jeff Stoner, the Director of Christian County EMA, probably thought he’d signed up for a job full of spreadsheets and mild anxiety. Instead, he’s become the weather whisperer of the Midwest. Between coordinating first responders, appeasing festival committees, and explaining for the 437th time that “tornado sirens don’t mean ‘go outside and look’”, he’s basically become the Dr. Phil of disaster management.
“We want people to be weather-aware,” Stoner said on the WTIM Morning Show, while presumably restraining himself from screaming into the void.
You see, while you’re Instagramming your funnel cake, Stoner and his team are checking wind shear levels like they’re trying to land a NASA shuttle. You know how some people have “storm anxiety”? Stoner has “public complacency rage.”
Tornado Sirens: Not the Opening Act
Let’s clear up some myths about tornado sirens, because apparently, this still needs to be said in the Year of Our Lord 2025.
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They’re not a universal “run for your life” alarm.
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They’re outdoor warning systems.
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OUTDOOR.
As in, “if you’re outside and hear it, go inside.” Not “stand on the porch with a Bud Light and scream ‘YUP, IT’S A BIG ONE!’”
Stoner wishes people would treat weather alerts like they treat Facebook drama: Take it seriously, and for the love of God, don’t wait until it’s trending to pay attention.
Emergency Management: The Party Poopers You Need
You ever plan a party and worry about food allergies, parking, or someone bringing their weird uncle? Now imagine you also have to worry about:
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Wind speeds above 60 mph
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Medical tent staffing
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Live tracking a thunderstorm shaped like a middle finger
Emergency management at events is like trying to be the designated driver at Mardi Gras. Everyone else is here to party, and you’re just trying to keep people from crowd-surfing into a porta-potty.
Stoner says event safety is more than just hoping for good luck and better insurance. There’s coordination with police, fire, EMS, the county health department, probably the park squirrels at this point, and about 14 different weather apps.
And still, still, somebody’s going to yell, “You canceled the event over a little drizzle?”
Yes, Karen. A little drizzle... that came with 70 mph winds and a tree that turned into a projectile.
The Four Horsemen of the Festival-pocalypse
Let’s break down what Jeff Stoner and the Christian County EMA are actually up against when summer events roll around:
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People Who Don’t Believe in Weather
These are the “I don’t trust radar” crowd. They look at a green blob of doom on the Doppler and say, “Looks fine to me.” These are also the people who pack for a picnic while there's a tornado watch and think umbrellas are bulletproof. -
Vendors Who Fear No Man, But Loathe Delays
If you’ve ever tried to reschedule a taco truck, you know the true terror of logistics. Every event has at least one vendor who says “I’ve served in worse” like they’re storm veterans and not just really committed to selling gyro bowls. -
Midwestern Optimism
Bless their hearts. These are the folks who say things like, “Well if it starts raining, we’ll just move everything under the gazebo!” as if weather patterns can be reasoned with. -
Local Facebook Groups
No need for sirens when we’ve got Sharon live-streaming the clouds and declaring, “I talked to my cousin’s nephew who’s a hobbyist storm chaser, and he says we’re fine.”
"It's Just Wind" — Famous Last Words
Christian County knows that weather doesn’t RSVP. It shows up like an uninvited ex with mood swings. And nothing puts a damper on your “Beer and Brats Bash” quite like a surprise microburst turning your bounce house into a low-orbit satellite.
Jeff Stoner and team don’t just sit in a bunker watching The Weather Channel reruns. They pre-stage equipment, coordinate shelter locations, monitor real-time meteorological data, and probably develop a mild ulcer every time someone asks if lightning is “really that dangerous.”
Spoiler: Yes. Yes it is.
Safety Apps Are a Vibe—Download One
Stoner is big on real-time weather alerts, which is like telling people to use seatbelts in a demolition derby. Still, it matters.
You can set alerts on your phone so that when a storm is forming, you know before it’s in your lap. Think of it like Tinder, but for atmospheric trauma. Swiping right means “Yes, I’d like to survive, thanks.”
There are free apps like:
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NOAA Weather Radar Live (for the data nerds)
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CodeRED (for emergency alerts in your area)
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The Weather Channel (for boomers and believers alike)
Or, you can just keep refreshing your cousin Dale’s Snapchat and hope he yells “oh s---” fast enough for you to take cover.
Christian County’s Event Planning Flowchart (Unofficial, Probably Hilarious)
Let’s walk through how an event like the Christian County Corn & Chaos Festival might get planned:
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Idea: “Let’s do a family fun day with inflatables, a beer tent, fireworks, and maybe a goat petting zoo.”
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EMA Involvement: “Okay, but what if the goat gets struck by lightning?”
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Committee Reaction: “That seems unlikely.”
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Weather Forecast: 50% chance of hell.
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Final Plan:
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Backup generator? ✅
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Medical tent? ✅
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Ice for drinks or for blunt trauma? ✅
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Goat-sized rain ponchos? Working on it.
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Event Day:
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First 20 minutes: Beautiful.
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Minute 21: Sky turns into Mordor.
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Public reaction: “Nobody told us it could rain!”
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EMA: “We literally posted 12 warnings and did a TikTok about it.”
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The Psychology of Denial: Festival Edition
Why do people ignore weather warnings?
Because fun trumps fear. People hear “severe thunderstorm” and picture a moody drizzle while sipping hard lemonade under a tent. They don’t imagine gale-force winds removing their aunt’s wig mid-polaroid.
And let's be honest, small-town events are sacred. Nobody wants to cancel the Pie-Eating Championship because of “some clouds.”
But as Stoner will tell you, the choice isn’t always “fun or not-fun.” Sometimes it’s “fun or lawsuit.”
The Heroes in Headsets
Behind every fried-dough-fueled festival are first responders on high alert, sipping lukewarm coffee and mentally preparing for either nothing to happen—or for all the things to happen at once.
Christian County’s cops, firefighters, EMS, EMA volunteers, and meteorological interns (yes, probably even those) are all coordinating like it’s D-Day—while the crowd wonders if the petting zoo will have alpacas this year.
Every event is a gamble. You pray it’s just a breezy good time. But if the winds shift, you better hope someone planned ahead—and that someone is almost always the EMA.
Final Thoughts: Respect the Clipboards
If you’re attending a summer event in Christian County, here’s what you should know:
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Someone lost sleep so you could drink beer and listen to mediocre cover bands in relative safety.
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The sirens are not optional background noise.
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If the EMA says “take cover,” do not argue with them unless you want to see your lawn chair in Kansas.
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Yes, even if “it looks fine to you.”
So the next time you’re at the Christian County Fireworks Funblast Foodstravaganza (I made that up, but you know it’s real), and you see a tense guy in a high-visibility vest clutching a radio and muttering about Doppler—go buy him a corn dog. He’s probably Jeff Stoner. And he’s probably saved your hide at least once.
For more, visit www.christiancountyil.gov or their Facebook page. Just don’t ask them if it’s okay to fly your drone during a tornado watch. Seriously.
