How fitting yesterday was the 73rd anniversary of Black Sunday, the environmental disaster that marked the beginning of the Dust Bowl.
Granted, our north state winds weren’t in the same league. But here in Igo the forceful gales and rollings gusts showed an impressive strength and speed I’d never seen in the almost five years we’ve owned this country property.
Our young redwoods and maples bent like Chinese acrobats. Mature oaks waved their heavy branches in surrender. Bird feeders swung like crazed pendulums, while finches clung to perches like tiny, determined rodeo riders.
Herbs I’d cut and collected in a basket scattered up, up and away before I could reach the house.
Leftover clippings from weekend weed-whacking formed a whirling, airborne dervish that rose above our house and out of sight.
Any minute I expected a woman in a pointy black hat to blow by on her bicycle.
Dorothhhhy!!!!
We’re accustomed to wind, especially in the afternoon. Our home sits on a ridge where winds routinely slam against our house until a few windows finally produce whistles only fit for dog trainers.
We’ve considered putting all that hot air to work for us via a windmill. Kelly Brewer, my friend and yours, has addressed wind power over on her blog, Pink Hollyhock.
Oh boy. Free power. Let’s get some.
But yesterday’s wind was so awesome I wondered if a windmill pole could withstand it.
The wind pushed, shoved, ripped and tossed. It roared, screamed and howled. It was an oxygen-snorting runaway train on meth.
Thousands of redwood bark chips evacuated their former home beneath the oak tree near our driveway. The bark raced across the driveway, up the front steps and onto the doormat, exposing black plastic under the oak tree that lifted and billowed into dark, shiny pillows.
From the relative safety of our living room I watched a metal chair on our deck blow over and keep going, like a moonwalker skimming the tile. A large metal tray on the patio table became momentarily airborne.
I eyed the 8-foot-tall windows that line our living room and imagined a shower of shattering glass.
That blasted wind. It. Just. Wouldn’t. Stop.
Finally, just before sundown the wind wound down and died. Glory be.
It left behind a frigid breeze and a carnage of downed branches, leaves, bark and twigs, far from where their starting points.
This morning I awoke to still air.
For now.
