Wind and dirt? Not a problem ~ April 7, 2004

David Heiller

 I was eating supper at the Redwood Cafe the other evening, and had an interesting exchange with an elderly lady on the way out.

We had parked next to each other. She was driving an immaculate white something, and I had my good old 1996 Taurus.

She looked at my car and said, “You must live in the country.”

Which was a polite way of saying, “That is the filthiest car I have ever seen.”

I said something polite in return, like, “Υup, good old gravel roads;” which translated would mean, “Brilliant deduction, Sherlock”

But she said it kindly, and it made me smile, because I don’t think of my car as dirty anymore, and seeing it through the eyes of that L.O.L. [editor's note: LOL does not mean laugh out-loud. In David speak L.O.L. means Little Old Lady.] got me to thinking.

Dirt on my car is so commonplace that I think of it as part of the paint job, like textured wallpaper. I see it so often that I don’t see it anymore.

Car companies should think about marketing a new color: Gravel Road. I’d buy it.

I wash the old Taurus every so often, when the dirt gets too much even for me. But Murphy’s Law 27-G always kicks in when that happens. Law 27-G goes like this: “A rainstorm will follow the washing of a car within 24 hours, negating the effect of a car wash in rural Houston County.” So why bother, I soon ask myself.

It’s worse during the mud season, when Hillside Road should change its name to Hill Slide Road. But no matter the season, my car always seems to have a layer of dirt on front, sides, and back.

Ina perverse way, I like that dirty car. It’s a statement that says, “I live in the country and I’m proud of it.”

I’ve met people that absolutely would not live on a gravel road, because of what it does to their vehicles. That’s fine with me. No problem. It’s part of the reason why there isn’t a house in sight, which is fine with me too.

And it’s windy too

Another thing about where we live that might not appeal to everyone is the wind. There always seems to be a breeze at our house 500 feet above the river. Sometimes it’s pleasant, steady, brisk. All those words weathermen use.

Our friend Gail and me on a walk
down our dusty, windy road, flying a kite.

And sometimes the wind is awesome. Intense. Mind-numbing. The kind of wind that sent the less-hardy pioneers back east, or drove them crazy.

I had heard that from people on the ridge before, about The Wind, in capital letters, but I had shrugged it off with a “Yeah, so it’s windy, big deal.” It IS a big deal. There have been a few days this spring where I could imagine the barn blowing over, along with the big white pine in the yard, and even, dare I say it, our new house.

But they have all learned to adjust to the Minnesota hurricanes that pound us about once a week with 40-mile-an-hour winds.

The barn tilts a little to the north, like it’s leaning into the breeze, and it creaks and groans like it’s alive and not feeling so good. But it isn’t going anywhere. It’s too well made. The Kuecker Brothers would laugh at the very notion of their 1944 masterpiece on the Thomford farm blowing over.

The tall pine tree goes with the flow too. It sways and sighs and seems to say, “Be flexible. Give a little. Let the wind to what it will.”

And the house, well, let’s just say that John Holzwarth hasn’t had one of his houses blow over yet, and ours won’t be the first. We can hardly tell it’s windy when we are inside. And inside is where I go when that wind gets to me.

John lives in the valley, just two miles away as the hawk flies. On one of those unbelievably windy days earlier this year, he came up to the farm and said there wasn’t even a breeze at his house. He said this not smugly, but with a bit of wonder in his voice. Like, “How can there be a gale here and no wind down the road five miles?”

I’m still in that spot too. I grew up in Brownsville, but Ι never felt the wind then like I have on numerous occasions at our new house. And we’ve only lived there a month!

I like that diversity. And I like the dirt too.

If yοu can’t beat ‘em ...