I’m
just a southern Oklahoma country boy, but I thought I got some sophisticatin’
when I went all the way to Texas for some higher book learnin’.
Jaunts in the army to Germany and France and
Holland and Belgium and Switzerland and Austria and Italy oughta have added a
layer or two, as well. My wife and I went to Spain and Mexico, too, but we were
so set in our ways by then, an uptick in sophism might not have taken.
I know, I know. The title indicates I'm going to write about a couple of exotic weather events out here in the hinterlands of New Mexico. (That's the sophisticated part.) I am, but first let me set up the situation. My wife, bless
her, succumbed to pneumonia and renal failure a little over four years ago.
After that, I moved to a one bedroom apartment in the Northeast Heights of
Albuquerque. I like my little apartment. Nothing fancy, but it has the
necessary accoutrements. Haven’t had any problems here except my freezer died.
That’s important because I don’t cook, so I lived out of it. The appliance was entitled to a dignified end, I
suppose. It was eighteen years old, which in freezer-years made it older than I
am.
While
Betty was in the hospital, our Montgomery Ward clothes dryer conked out. I
looked up the papers to see if there was a warranty (Betty saved everything).
I learned we’d purchased it in 1974, but if there was any warranty left, good luck with that because the company is long gone. But I figured we’d gotten
our money out of it and replaced it with a brand new shiny one that’s already
making strange noises after only four years. Then last month, its companion, a
1974 Montgomery Ward washer gave up the ghost while it was full of bedding.
Wringing out sheets by hand is fun. I might take it up as an avocation. Anyone
care to join me? We can make up a circle.
Pardon
me. I seem to have gotten off the track somewhat. Anyway, the one thing I
really like about the apartment is I can open the patio door in the front and
the window in the bedroom, so a breeze whips through making the use of my
refrigerated air thingamajig unnecessary. (Last year, the only time I used it
was when I was dog sitting and had to leave the pup in a closed up apartment).
As a matter of fact, I regularly boast to friends, companions, and occasionally
strangers about not having to run up my electric bill with “air conditioning.”
(And this is New Mexico, remember.)
Don’t
get impatient, we’re getting there. In fact, we have arrived. In the past few days, two phenomena with exotic-sounding names have appeared
on the weather scene in Albuquerque. And when these things arrived, it made me
question the sanity of anyone who denies Mankind (oops, Humankind) is
affecting the weather. (Note: The correction is important, because women might as
well share the blame, too.)
Last
week, a Haboob blew through the area. Sounds both exotic and
scary, right? What is it? A dust storm…but an Arabic dust storm. Dare I infer anything from that? I’m not a
conspiracy theorist…but just saying.
Then Monday night, we experienced a Virga Bomb. Took out my telephone service, my internet,
and my cable, but left my lights on. Have you tried existing without any one of
those things lately? How about two? But all three? I was reduced to reading!
Now
everyone in the southwest has seen virga…many times. It’s simply precipitation
that never reaches the ground. Dry rain, if you will. And windstorms (which
here are the same as dust storms to my mind) are common. I’ve been through some hairy
windstorms, ones that blew down branches and even trees, shattered the back
window of my car, were so bad I had to stop driving and wait them out while
suffocating in the front seat of my auto.
Not sure
why that last dust storm was given that exotic name, but I sure as hell know
why they termed Monday night’s virga as a bomb. The winds were hurricane force…at
least they seemed that way to me.
Now, why
did I choose to write about Haboobs and Virga Bombs for this week's post? To show what weird
creatures we humans are. I recently gave a set of bookends carved from a beautiful Mexican stone to a friend. I gave them
away because I wasn’t using them. Well, not as bookends, at any rate. But one
served as a doorstop for my bedroom. When the Haboob blew through, filling my
already dusty place with more grit, the bedroom door slammed shut with an
explosive bang. I propped it open with one foot while casting around
for something to prevent it from blowing shut again.
I told
you my wife died, but I didn’t tell you I had her cremated. Her ashes sit on my
bedroom chest of drawers in a dark gray, gold-trimmed urn. That’s the first thing my eye
fell on, so I grabbed it and used it as a doorstop, muttering an apology as I
did so. I spent the rest of the evening feeling guilty. I somehow got the idea
Betty was glaring down on me in disapproval. She was a natural redhead, so that should give you some
idea of the severity of her glare. In fact, when I
laid a hand on the urn (a nightly ritual) and said goodnight before turning in, it seemed
hot to my touch. Probably my imagination.
Well,
when the virga storm hit, the winds it brought made the Haboob look
puny. The sprinklers outside my door were on when it struck, and the gusts blew
water halfway down the hall of my apartment. In all my time in the
southwest, I’ve never experienced anything like it.
Guess
what? Bang. The door again. With a sigh, I once more asked Betty for help . As I put
the urn on the floor yet another time, I recalled a comment she’d once made when we had a
mild dust-up. “Sometimes I think I’m nothing but a doorstop to you.”
But I don't think she meant it literally.
Next week: Wait and see!
New posts are published at
6:00 a.m. each Thursday.
