Just Another Windy Day

After spending at least five minutes applying layers of clothing including gloves and my ridiculous mad bomber bunny rabbit fur hat with ear flaps and a chin strap (for which I am eternally grateful), the dogs and I braved the hellish weather for a quick pee. The weather man, Chief Forecaster (no he's not an Indian just a goofy white guy), predicts more of the same until the weekend. Today is the third straight day with sustained 40 mile-an-hour winds accompanied by an occasional 70-90 mile-an-hour gust, which might be tolerable (although doubtful) if the temperature were 20 degrees warmer than the 41 displayed on the outside thermometer. On the east coast this would qualify as a hurricane and people would tape their windows and stock up on batteries, but here it's just another windy day.

Three miles down the road lies the small town of Ulm, population under 500 people, but well over 200 dogs along with assorted cats, chickens, ducks, goats, and guinea hens--many of whom can be found in the middle of the street at most times of the day. Ulm's a typical small town with its own post office, a gas station, a bar, a casino, an elementary school, as well as a born-again Christian church. And not much else. Not that one really needs much else.

This morning I realized if I wanted my Mother's Day package to arrive on time I would have to head to Ulm's post office before noon (when Leslie closes up for lunch) to ensure the package would get out today. So off I went. Heading out the back door towards the truck hunched over at a 90 degree angle, package in hand, purse on my shoulder I quickly realized I was moonwalking. Both the package and the purse were flying parallel to the ground behind me as my legs moved forward and backward but my body stayed in place while the truck remained out of reach. Almost at once I began howling with laughter realizing the futility of this adventure as well as the absurdity of my life. My arm fought against the wind's resistance as I willed my hand to meet my face and wipe the blinding tears. At the moment of contact my glasses found their freedom and joined the tumbleweeds hurrying across the prairie....

Later in the afternoon I give in and decide to tackle the pile of ironing--yes, I still iron. So I'm upstairs standing at the board (bored) but determined to finish when I begin to feel the house moving and hear it groaning under the increasing pressure of the now pounding gale force wind. The dreaded 70-90 mile-an-hour gust just one of many we will brace against over the next 72 hours. I look out the south facing window but can't see a thing. Confused but determined to figure out why I can't see I realize that what I'm actually seeing is my neighbor's recently plowed field blowing past the house. I am literally standing in the middle of a dirt storm--dirt and seed--that is. The Gerard's crop and livelihood just blew past my window. I'm so glad Lew and Kathy live downwind--they have cows. I'm guessing the expression, "when pigs fly" originated on the windward side of the Rockies. On a day like today it makes perfect sense. Indeed.