The wind, she blows through Ohio like a knife sometimes. It’s the scariest thing about the weather up here, except for the fact it will change on you in a blue minute, and go from 13 frigid degrees to 53 in a day’s time.
I grew up in Georgia, where when the wind blows real hard, it’s called a tornado. It sucks in like a giant vacuum cleaner and wraps your metal swingset around the neighbor’s back porch, but it only lasts a few minutes before the sky turns a weird shade of pink and momma will let you out from underneath the mattress she threw on top of you and the dog, after she made y’all get in the bathtub. By the time she got the empty milk jug full of water, and herself under the mattress, all the destruction was done and over.
In Ohio, the wind will come through in a “straight line,” and it’ll blow like a sumbitch for a full day and night. It’s terrifying, because there is absolutely nothing you can do about it but hope the truck is totaled when the giant tree you’re parked near blows over. Haha! I joke! Of course you’d move the truck. Closer, just to make sure. Joking again! Kind of.
The wind blew through last night, and dropped a branch right on top of our little city house. It would have been far more distressing if we owned the place, but we rent, and have a really great landlord, so a quick phone call was all we had to do get things taken care of.
Or so I thought.
The maintenance guy came out this morning to take pictures and tarp off the hole. He finished up, climbed down and picked his way through the debris on the ground to leave. I asked him if we could go ahead and clean up, and he uttered the dreaded words.
“Don’t touch anything until the insurance people get here.”
No. Please no. It’s a trigger, I can’t help it, I should probably get disability for it, but I’m too embarrassed to file for it. The minute I’m told “not to touch” something, it becomes my life’s mission to touch that thing.
My friends who were with me at the Fabergé Egg exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art still rarely speak to me and it’s been 20 years since the stern warning from the KGB agent to keep my filthy American mitts off the eggs. Time, apparently, does not heal all wounds. Also, fair warning, if you’re ever with me in a crowd and hear someone yell, “Hey! You! Get your hands off that!” you should probably step away from my general area and person, unless you want a dressing down by a very formidable person of authority.
It’s a good thing we’re leaving town. Let’s go truckin’.