Microbursts

Today Elspeth listened to the wind gusting and buffeting and asked, "Is that the kind of wind that can knock a little kid over?"

I said no to make her feel better but I think the answer may have been in favor of the wind. I've never seen wind like this, not in Kenya or Montana or Iowa or. . .anywhere. It blows up suddenly from the west--at one moment everything is still and then there's a sound like a railway train crashing on the tracks and the trees bend over like they've been struck by food poisoning. Snow swirls! Windowpanes streak!

In the summertime the wind is accompanied by thunder, lightning, and torrential rain. One day I bought myself a great treat--a beautiful rose standard that would become the crowing glory of our little fenced side garden. I planted it, tamped down the soil, lifted my head from the shovel, and, lo! The sky was the color of coal, heavy with angry clouds. I dropped my shovel and ran and from the doorway I heard above the storm, a sharp CRACK! The gorgeous budded head of my rose standard hit the ground and was no more.

A year or so later, we were potlucking with our friends under a pavilion in a park when another microburst struck us. We huddled in a corner while the wind howled to an excess of fifty miles an hour; trashcans bounced across the playground; some children buried their heads in their mother's laps and cried. My girls threw up their hands and begged to run into the rain. I tried to sing the Battle Hymn of the Republic like the Parcheesi-playing family in A Time of Wonder, but it was a pathetic solo effort. When we finally cleared up our scraps and drove home, we saw fallen tree limbs, a blown-out storefront window.

And here's the memorable microburst of all, which occurred the very first summer we moved here. Martin's parents drove up from Texas in their spanking new minivan. We were so full of excitement about the beauty of the surrounding hills that we insisted we take them out for a drive among the babbling creeks and stunning valleys. So we did, but as we entered some netherworld between Pennsylvania and West Virginia. . .you guessed it. The sky darkened, hurricane-like weather ensued. After about twenty tense minutes of narrow, winding roads, flying debris, and panic about the state of the new van, we stopped completely in front of a felled tree with a wide-gerthed trunk. I was making the best of a dubious situation and offering to get out of the car and help shift it (did I mention I was late in my second pregnancy?) Finally Martin and his dad joined forces with some guys in a pick-up truck and we could crawl forward.

At this point it seemed as if we were lost in the raging weather, but Martin had a tiny map of the county that he kept consulting. He assured us that he knew exactly where we were in the maze but then we rounded a corner and knew we had entered a different world entirely. This is what I remember: train tracks, two men on a bizarre independent car of sorts locomoted by a handle. From the car's prow a Confederate flag flapped in the wind. We were about to cross the tracks when another, and yet another, unbelievable car passed by--a whole surreal parade! At this point Martin's parents turned to us with a look of resigned disbelief. "It must be a repair car," Martin said nonchalantly, but even we, who were so insistent about the charm of our new home, were a bit shaken.

But that's what a microburst will do to you--make you feel, like Dorothy, that your house, your brain, your reason, has been jerked upside down. Thankfully, they pass fairly quickly and we're pretty used to them now, just as we are no longer afraid that the houses perched on steep streets are going to tip over.

Furthermore, we now have three children instead of one, and microbursts, weather-related or not, are common. I wouldn't classify us as storm-chasers, just fairly placid observers. Stand back, close your eyes if necessary, wait for the chaos to pass, and pray that no little kids get knocked over.