Clutching my second grade reader, I watched cars and semis whiz past on the highway, but my school bus didn’t appear. Only my imagination kept me company.
My imagination and the wind. It swirled, breathing earthy spring smells and twittery bird songs.
What do you do when you’re seven years old with no agenda?
You dance with the wind, of course.
I skipped and leaped more like a spring calf than the ballerina twirling in my head.
The porch light went on. Mom poked her head out. “Honey, are you all right?”
What kind of question was that? “I’m dancing with the wind.”
“Oh. Okay. Just don’t get dirty.” Mom closed the door.
The wind and I resumed our dance until the bus arrived.
Eventually, I learned to keep my performances secret, though spring’s Chinook, as Laura Ingalls Wilder called it in The Long Winter, and I continued joyous rendezvous.
However, watching evil Miss Gulch of The Wizard of Oz during a cyclone gave me second thoughts about Mr. Wind.
My own stormy encounter at age 18 confirmed the wind’s erratic moods. Trees fell around my car, power lines sparked, and a nearby chimney exploded. Had the wind gotten up on the wrong side of the continent? Still, I loved its gentler caresses.
My husband never has understood my wind fetish. One sultry night during our early marriage, even the open window above our pillows didn’t cool me. I moved mine to the foot of the bed. Ah, the ecstasy of wind on my toes!
Hubby, who awoke to feet in his face, wasn’t ecstatic.
Ceiling fans help keep us together.
Lately, I’ve winced as the wind has powered trash cans and downspouts past my window. I don’t relish the prospect of spreading Weed & Feed® mostly on me — and Rhode Island.
If we camp this spring, we and our camper may follow Miss Gulch to Oz.
At home, you might find me and my laptop in the bathtub, a refuge reminiscent of the tub where I once read to three antsy little children until an all-clear siren sounded. Thankfully, our bathtubs were/are of the literary variety.
Despite grown-up reservations, the wind still holds a fascination for me. The force that spins windmills like pinwheels recalls Jesus reminding rich, powerful Nicodemus that the wind — and God’s Spirit — are way beyond our control.
The spring wind still burgeons with life. Some dark, early morning, I’ll answer Chinook’s call. We’ll dance while no one watches, turns on a porch light, or calls the police.
Why do I want to dance with the wind? Possibly because my grandmother passed down her Native American heritage.
Her middle name was Zephyr.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Have you ever danced with the wind?