Howling Wind

Hard to ignore the fact that the house is shaking. I get a flashlight to hand, set out a round of candles and an oil lamp. The wind is blowing sheets of rain that sound like the end of the world. The ridge seems to split the worst of the storm cells down into the hollows on either side. I collect wash water at a furious rate, replenishing what I used for a bath in mere minutes. I worry about the driveway, but there's nothing I can do. It's the leaves, clogging the catchments, that are the problem. Warnings on the radio advise that a line of severe weather is tracking just to the north of me, tornados possibly, and that I should seek shelter. A strange warning, in a way, because I'm in my shelter. I retreat to the sofa, with my headlamp, and read the latest Lee Child novel. Mind candy. Escapism, avoidance, whatever. The power comes back on, briefly, and I had left the radio on, came in on Bill Evans covering some classic jazz standard. I know the tune, but I don't know the name. Doesn't matter, in the great stream of things. Did I mention the wind is howling? Hail, and another warning to stay away from windows. My haunt, the highest spot for miles around, seems safe enough; the wind dies down, and the rain diminishes to a dribble. I seem to have survived. Do, no small part, to Edgar Meyer and the Cello Suites, which I play on a battery powered unit with head phones. I wake, after the storm has passed, when the electricity pops back on, a couple of lights and the radio. Rory Block is one hell of a guitar player. Percussive. Sounds like she's beating her instrument to death. No better way to catch my attention, than to cover Son House and Mississippi John Hurt in the same set. The Reverend Gary Davis. I love this stuff. Hard driving gospel, morality tales, and the harmonics left hanging in the air. Muddy Waters and Howling Wolf, a litany of people and places. I've been almost everywhere with almost everyone and none of it matters. What matters, ultimately, is what you feel. Robert Johnson certainly stirs the pot.