All eighteen inches of snow that fell during that great storm on Saturday melted away yesterday (Wednesday) because the temp rose to fifty degrees Fahrenheit by afternoon.
Then I had a night of sheer anxiety, because the wind was so strong and loud that it made me fear that all the windows of my house would shatter. Just after midnight the racket awoke me, and I could not sleep since: I just lay there trembling. — The National Weather Service issued a "High Wind Warning" for the place where I live (if you can call this living); they prophesied "gusts up to 60 mph" as well as "damaging winds that can blow down trees and power lines." They also said "widespread power outages are expected"; but thankfully we didn't experience that, yet. (I'm writing this only shortly after the noise died down — for the last few hours, it sounded like a baby tornado.) Just now I opened the drapes to look outside, expecting to see cars overturned and rubble strewn everywhere, but there was nothing out of the ordinary: the whole landscape appeared pristine. So I guess I peed my pants for nothing.
It's funny to review the thoughts that one experiences during a period of intense fear, after the terror subsides. I don't know about you, but I'm a very imaginative Fraidy Cat. Even when the threat is minor, I envision the worst. (If society were to recognize official levels of achievement in the Art of Cowardice, I'd be a Black-belt Master.) Last night I was certain that the following scenes were occurring somewhere nearby:
The wind picked up and tossed a mule thru the bedroom window of a recently married couple; and the beast landed between them in bed.
A street lamp blew over and discharged an array of sparks when it hit the ground, causing a rabbit who was half asleep near the lamp's base to dash into the street and almost get hit by a mid-sized car that was speeding past. This same car then drove off a cliff and exploded in flames.
Undergarments hanging on a clothes line were blown away and carried across state lines by strong winds. Where they ended up, nobody knows.
A detective working on a case is sneaking around at night. The winds begin to pick up, causing the detective's notepad to blow away; and its pages are torn out, one by one, as the notebook hurls thru space. Eventually, wild birds snatch up these pages with their talons and employ them to line their nests. If the birds could read what is written on these leaves that they've collected from the detective's notebook, they might solve the mystery.
The 35th U.S. President pays a visit to my hometown in Minnesota, on the night when a Great Wind-Storm is about to erupt. Countless myriads of assassins from the government's Central Intelligence Agency are hiding in all the shrubs and behind every tree. These agents aim their sniper rifles in tandem at the President's motorcade, when it comes slowly driving by. Now the assassins begin to shoot & shoot & shoot... But, suddenly, a mighty breeze blows thru and alters the trajectories of the bullets — despite the fact that they are all magic — thus, not a single shot hits its mark.
A deer is traipsing thru the forest when the winds begin to blow. The deer is caught up in a mini-hurricane and deposited safely at its intended destination. This deer's name is JFK, which stands for "Just Effing Kidding". The studio audience gives an interminable standing ovation.
The Miss America Pageant is taking place in Minnesota, right when the infamous High Wind Warning goes into effect. All the red-colored bathing suits of the contestants therefore get inflated by the harsh 60-mph gusts, and their stretchy material appears, in every instance, as a round balloon-shape. So, when attempting to assess the contours of each figure, the judges of the contest must simply wing it (as the STAR WARS movie sez: "Use the Force, Luke!"), for the ladies all appear exactly the same: they are equally spherical: it's like comparing apple-hued oranges. — Ultimately, once results are tallied, behold: the one who garners the highest ratings and thus wins the pageant is actually the woman who is the most charismatic and wise; although she does not boast the typical "hourglass figure", she is a true Creative Genius. This proves scientifically that the judges of beauty contests possess keen intuition, and they comprehend that sensual allure is not only skin-deep. MORAL: We spectators should collectively shift our attention from whatever artwork is being displayed and instead develop an attraction for the old male critics who hold all the power.
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