Fragments From Floyd

The continents would be cooking or freezing without them, the prevailing winds that are the world's mixing machines of weather. I have no quarrels with wind on this grand scale of meteorological plan and purpose. It is the unprevailing and fickle winds up close and personal that I have not learned to make my peace with.

I've tried five times to start in on the wood, to get the trunks of oaks out of the pasture before the orchard grass and clover begin to bolt and rise. Five times since mid-week, I've been thwarted by winds that immediately send fine specks of sawdust to my eyes the instant the chain bites wood. So instead, I split large rounds of oak with the Monster Maul for far longer than I should have, usually alternating between splitting and cutting; and I have the back to prove it this morning.

Now I shouldn't complain, because compared to many places in Floyd County, we are mercifully sheltered from the worst of the winds. We hear it howling and see the ridge top trees leaning away from the strong winds of late winter, but the ridges to the north and west give us pretty good shelter--provided the winds come from the proper direction. To the south and east, we're less protected; and in some combination of velocity and direction, if we had a weather vane, it would wrench violently back and forth from every direction on the compass. If we could see the air, it would be revealed as massive, roiling tendrils licking into the valley, spinning wheels, counterclockwise, clockwise, vertical then horizontal chaos.

This morning, I cleaned out both wood stoves, an onerous task even early in the wood burning season, and abhorrent by mid-March, even on a calm day. Try as I might to predict which way the cloud of ashes would rise when I emptied the ash scoop into the metal can on the front walk, the fine dust and specks pursued me with evil intent no matter how I dodged, and my navy sweat pants are shades of gray.