To others the country was aloof, austere, forbidding; the wind sucking their courage as it sucked the green from the grass by mid-June. Some saw it as a great sea caught and held forever in a spell, and were afraid. And here and there were a few sensitive to the constantly changing tans and mauves of the strange, rhythmical hills that crowded away into the hazy horizon. They heard the undying wind rattle the seed pods of the yuccas against the sky, sing its thin flute song over the tall, sparse grasses of the slopes.
Mari Sandoz, Old Jules
A mallard takes off from the side of the highway, but the high wind keeps the bird from gaining altitude. I gasp and swerve, but the duck’s body slams into my car. I hope, against odds, to see him fly despite being struck, but his body rolls to the other side of the road, and I know I’ve killed him.
Dang wind, I think, blinking back tears. I hate knowing if I hadn’t been driving on the highway, that poor mallard might be alive.
Earlier in the day, we flew kites — my kids with their cousins — the wind lifting the little plastic rhombuses high in the air, colorful tails trailing as the kites swooped and dove.
The rest of the week, I substitute teach in town. The wind dies down in the night and kicks back up by afternoon each day. A student tells me at recess, “It’s a sandstorm, Mrs. Louden!”
“How was your day?” Jon asks, tossing his gloves on the chair after coming inside. “Were the kids as wound up from the wind as the cattle?” He chuckles as I relate my stories from school.
The next day, the wind is worse. Slamming a shoulder into the water of the lakes, the wind riles up white caps and foam that gathers at the southern edges. The water looks muddy, a murky brown against the blue sky.
The wind sets the cattle on edge. They drift behind hills, finding pockets of protection; they lay down in sheltered spots and don’t want to get up and move. A mother cow refuses to lick her calf. She lays next to him, but never licks — is it because of the wind? Has her scent of him been carried away in gale? The cattle rely so much on their sense of smell. Jon says, “When the wind blows this hard, it’s almost like it has blinded them.”
The windmills turn, metal sails spinning wildly in the strong wind. The pump rod lurches up and down at a frenzied pace, while a steady stream of cool, clear water pours from the lead pipe into the tank. The wind blows harder yet and shuts the miraculous contraptions off.
My husband grumbles as he reads the forecast. A dip in temperatures over the weekend increases our chances for moisture. Lows are predicted to hover around freezing, but that isn’t what is setting his teeth on edge. With sixty mile per hour winds, it won’t matter if it stays rain at those wind speeds — the heavies will need to be corralled, and every new calf will have to be brought in the barns. “The wind is a multiplier,” he says, “it makes everything harder.
I watch a heavy cow run toward the pond, her tail a pump handle showing she is almost ready to let loose a calf. She hits the water, turns and runs along the shoreline, then speeds across the meadow away from the rest of the herd. Her behavior of leaving the herd to calve isn’t strange, but the speed at which she does so is. Is it the wind, beating at her backside, making her a little wild?Â
A haze fills the air all afternoon—is it dirt? Smoke? I sneeze and try not to talk at the pickup line at school, still managing to inhale a mouthful of dirt. At home, I ride with Jon to check a pasture, we both sneeze, and I wipe brown gunk from the corners of my eyes.
I ask him if he wants to corral the heavies tonight. He says no, we’ll do it the morning. There’s a storm coming, but it’s time to rest tonight. Listen to the wind blow, and wait for the sun to rise.
Sandhills Prairie Girl 