As I have grown older, my children safely launched into orbit around lives
of their own, the obligatory mid-life crisis quelled, I continue to marvel
at the varied and wondrous ways my mind seeks and finds passion, living and
breathing around me. Perhaps it is the influence of the mythological bond
between Native American cultures in this area and this macrocosm, but with
age, increasingly I find myself distracted and entranced by the vagaries,
rumblings and general upheavals of nature.

                         ENTRIES FROM MY SKETCHBOOK
                          The Romance of the Storm
                          From Tales of Springdale
                First Posted on The Phoenix BBS Aug 10, 1984                          
            Later Modified and Published by Byline Magazine 1989
                        Copyright 1985 by Dave Laird

I first hear of it on the news, as some unctuous weatherman's voice drops a
register or two. His excitement at seeing the isobars move, aligning and
translating themselves into a winter storm on the coast, gives his job
meaning, for which he is glad. I am glad, as well, for I hear all of nature
around me. 

Far out on the Pacific, I hear the winds softly gathering up the moisture
from the depths of the great sea, and I hear the birds begin to hush their
prattling from atop the great fir outside my cabin door. The deer who, all
winter, have been maintaining a constant path to my yard for winter fodder,
cease their vigil, disappearing into the brush where they remain unseen
until the storm passes. 

The resplendent, albeit aggravating woodpecker who tirelessly bangs on my
steel chimney pipe just prior to dawn each morning, until he is certain that
I am awake, fades away into invisibility as the vortex of moisture-laden
cold draws near. Across the entire scope of the animal kingdom, the word is
passed by unseen courier until where once there was a winterscape of animals
moving to and fro, there is ominous silence.

That is, except for me, of course. Anxiously treading the floors, the
walkways of my house interspersed with scanning the sky, I await the arrival
of a big winter storm with all the trepidation and joy typically reserved
for a first-born child. The hours trickle by, and with the first whisper of
the wind in the firs, reclining against the sky, I dash out like some mad
poppinjay, to welcome the visitor who traveled all the way from the ocean to
dump two feet of snow on my house. In the wee hours of the morning, I drive
mindlessly back and forth across the county, my window ajar to better hear
the wind, the snow whispering beneath my tires and the silence of the north
woods.

I always stop for a brief cup of coffee at a nearby cafe, listening the
whole time to the wind outside interspersed with the voices of the truckers,
early-risen farmers and travelers taking a respite from the storm.

"Oh Lord, 395 is closed at Chewelah. Drifted shut tighter'n a popcorn
fart... " 

"Did you see that?? Some joker in a four-wheel drive skidded across the road
out in front and went in the ditch so far, all you could see was his rear
window...God, that's funny!"

"Twelve inches they say on the news...and then maybe some more tomorrow...I
wonder if they'll cancel school today..."

"I've been drivin' this same van for 110,000 miles and I ain't never got it
stuck yet..."

"Gawd almighty, I hate chainin' up, but I guess if'n I have to, I will. I
shoulda' taken the southern route this time, I told 'em, but no, who am I to
listen to...."

A former spouse of mine, wise in her ways, seldom worried when I would
charge forth in the middle of the night. She obviously knew something I do
not, for were I her, I would recommend a doctor to a man as who chases after
storms. Then again, if looking deeply into the man's eyes, I saw a faint
reflection of a secret romance between he and the stars, I would merely nod,
and send him on his way. For he, I, and the wind in the firs are one, and
dreams are made of such stuff.