… come rushing down from the Spring Mountains here in Las Vegas. Every year. And every year I lose a lot of sleep during the spring. I understand what’s happening, meteorologically. Cold fronts continually push through, trying to keep their grasp on a winter that has, even for us, been a bit chilly.
Hey, 21 degrees fahrenheit is cold here. Really cold. Pipe burstingly cold.
So, anyway, back to the weather. The cold fronts blow through pushing the wind ahead of them and we get these gusty winds that are just unforgiving and relentless. The patio furniture is trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, tied to cinderblocks I’ve hidden underneath it, and it is still trying to scoot across the concrete. I know. I peeked.
Every year I experience a special kind of stress as the sound of the wind rushes down the “chimney” and into the house via the fireplace when I’m downstairs and continues to buffet the sides of the house when I’m upstairs. Before I got the solar panels replaced and bolted to the roof, I could hear them lifting in the wind. The person who did the work assures me the strapping is rated for 120 mile per hour winds… and I think a gust of 60 is loud. 120 will launch the roof tiles, no questions asked. Hopefully, though, the neighbor who parks their Bentley outside won’t be able to discern my roof tiles from any other neighbor’s roof tiles. (Yes, there’s someone in my neighborhood with a $150,000 car. Parked outside on occasion. Sometimes parked next to the much more common 2004 Hyundai Sonata or 1999 Toyota Corolla.)
So, I suppose in the years I’ve lived here I’ve developed an obsession with wind. The main character in my book is also a wind aficionado. The wrong gust of wind at the right time could make her have a really bad day. How concerned is she with the wind? She is so concerned that she has a round the clock weather expert on hand at all times. Actually, she has five of them so they can work in shifts, because, I mean, really, who wants an exhausted weather expert?