Gwen Petersen
Big Timber, Mont.

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January 20, 2014
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Gwen Petersen: In a Sow's Ear 1-20-14

Wind and more wind — screaming, screeching, howling, yowling, slamming, bashing and blowing faster than a speeding bullet. Livestock have to be quick to keep up with their flying feed. While good that the nasty zephyrs bare off the hillsides and meadows so the cattle can eat, the constant beating and banging can drive one bonkers.

In town, I must park either downwind or upwind depending on which way the blasts will hit me. Such as stopping at the hardware store for a couple of items. Returning to my truck, I couldn’t get the door open. Well, I could open it, but was unable to hold on to my package and brace the door open and climb in.

Thankfully, I live in a small town. Re-entering the store, I implored the clerk to accompany me outside. She did which assistance allowed me to clamber within my vehicle.

Should I meet another individual, head down, pointed into the wind, I recognize the person only by the shoes or boots as I too am plodding along, head bent against the blast. Should the wind suddenly cease, I would fall flat on my face.

Traveling to another town 35 miles away, I had to drive into a head-wind that rocked and buffeted my truck as if it were a mere toy. Driving home, however, the tail-wind pushed me gaily along. I didn’t even need gasoline. Just went with the whipping flow.

Many newcomers who have moved “out west” and built or bought their dream dwelling fall into the dismals trying to adapt to the constant flogging, flailing winds. Big picture windows are not the best choice for a house built on a hill top. The rattling panes sound like a heavy-metal band is at work. The blustering currents can slice shingles off roof tops and sometimes the roof as well.

Once a traveler, stopping for gasoline at the town station, complained to the attendant: “How can anybody live here in this awful wind?!

Without missing a beat, the pump jockey said, “What wind? This is just a little local breeze.”

The Wind, The Wind, The Wind

The wind, the wind, the dad-blamed

cursed beastly piercing gales

They whistle o’er the mountain tops

with lonesome banshee wails.

No man, no woman, child nor beast

can stand against its force

Those dreadful scalping currents

can blast a cowboy off his horse.

Folks walk half-bent, heads hunched down,

their hands upon their hats

And if the wind should cease a second,

they’re apt to fall kersplat!

Cowpokes standing ’round a pickup

just chewing on their snoose

Refrain from spitting into the wind

for fear of freckle juice.

Cats and dogs have their fur

sand-blasted off their hides

And trees and plants have branches

growing only on one side.

Kids get lifted off their feet and

blown to Grandma’s digs

And Grandma’s bald because

the wind has snatched away her wig.

Well, I for one, have had it with

the raw and chilling wind

It blows me helter-skelter till

I don’t know where I’ve been.

When I retire I do not want

the trade winds kissing me

No drafts, no puffs, no breezes,

please, on my anatomy.

Just give me temperature that’s mild

and sun that is superb

Where birds and bees don’t lose their

wings in gales of 90 per.

Just let me bask in flowery bower

and wander on green grass

Where the only wind displeasing comes

— from someone passing gas. ❖

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The Fence Post Updated Jan 14, 2014 03:13PM Published Feb 3, 2014 10:26AM Copyright 2014 The Fence Post. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.