Batten Down the Hatches

"The Wind Freshens," by English marine artist Dr. Mike Haywood,
depicts a blustery day on the Mayflower.

When I was a girl, my mother loved to report the weather to me before I walked to school. She'd tune in on the kitchen radio and then transmit the alerts to me.

It's seven degrees, but with the wind chill factor, it's fourteen below zero, she'd say. My warning to bundle up--which must have been tough, since I wore a pleated plaid uniform skirt and knee socks until starting at the public high school.

They're forecasting wind gusts of 50 mph hour for tomorrow. And tonight, when H. and I were walking in the Village with Figgy, a bookstore owner fretted about his outdoor banner blowing and twisting, my Burberry scarf flew off and dust got in our eyes. I couldn't wait to take refuge in the car, parked on Commerce Street.

Just now, our storm door blew in and out with a loud slam. I suggested to Figgy that she might want to sleep on the couch or in our room tonight, instead of in her attic room. I'll be okay, she said.

This fierce wind takes me back to last March 13, when the towering tulip tree crashed through our roof, uprooting us for over eight months. I will never feel the same way about wind again.

I hope you are safe, wherever you are--Brooklyn brownstone or country farmhouse, suburban development or Manhattan high-rise. Good night, sleep tight.