The Pick 'Em Up Wind

The storm had threatened all day with grey-ish, anemic looking skies and what I remember my grandmother used to call a " pick'em up wind", warm but with an undertone of damp - sluggish but steady - a warning of rough weather ahead.  There was a melancholy yellow tinge in the air and it was a sad sack kind of day.

It was late evening when the rains finally came.  I watched from the safety and comfort of a bar stool while listening to an old friend from Arkansas sing of lost love and changing the world.  Hard driving and angry, the rain sleeted down the windows and set the traffic lights to swaying.  It hit the ground with a fierceness, welling up on the sides of the streets and running down the sides of the overpass.  A lone pedestrian walked past the bar, head bent into the wind, both hands clutching uselessly at an overwhelmed umbrella.  As I watched, it gave up the battle, collapsed inside out and was carried away on a gust of wind.  For just a moment it drifted ghost-like in the distorted, yellow haze of the streetlamp then was overpowered and took a suicidal dive over the railing and onto the interstate below.  The forlorn pedestrian continued on without it, each waterlogged step taking him deeper into the gloom until, in bits and pieces, he vanished like a windblown Cheshire Cat.  Watching him fade away, it wasn't hard to imagine the "pick'em up wind" snatching him right off his feet and sending him sailing over the overpass.  I hoped he hadn't much more to go.

It was well after midnight - on a school night, no less - and still downpouring when I got home.  The dogs, initially anxious and excited to go outside, made it as far as the back door before presenting a united front of their most reluctant and pitiful faces.  I coaxed/persuaded/manipulated and finally forced them out but felt badly about it and was ready with treats and clean towels when they returned.  It wasn't enough, of course, I could see the resentment in their eyes and feeling far too guilty to kennel them, I slept what was left of the night away with the distinctive scent of Eau de Damp Dog permeating the bedroom.  

Morning came and while the storm had mostly passed, the sky was still dark in places and the clouds looked to be feeling the after effects.  They hung wearily and low as if they could barely contain the weight of the rain and might rip over at any moment.  The "pick'em up wind" was still asleep but I sensed it was restless and would wake sooner rather then later and maybe even feel the way I did - ill rested, bad tempered, exhausted - but having no choice except to do what was required.

Standing barefoot on the back deck, smoking, drinking orange juice and waiting for the dogs to finish morning rounds, I thought again of my grandmother and wondered if I were to shower and dress and in her words, Be quick about it, could I get to work ahead of the next outburst.

You can't outrun storms or the pick'em up wind, she liked to tell me, but Lord willin' and the creek don't rise, you'll have another day to try.