A mighty wind

A Wellington storm brings out the arseholes

I don’t make a habit of quoting poetry at friends but bugger me, this sums up the last 24 hours.

I draw the curtains as the sky goes black
And set a match to candles sheathed in glass
Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine
Of weather through the unsealed aperture.
This is our sole defense against the season;
These are the things we have learned to do
Who live in troubled regions.

Adrienne Rich, Storm Warnings, 1951

Nobody likes being in the news because of weather, but as soon as that storm rolled in, Wellington was a top story, above the fold in a mighty big font. The gusts smacked the city around, slamming it against the table and then tossing it in the air, like a pizza chef handling dough.

Waves whipped white, dumping rocks and debris along the south coast, and householders told to evacuate; wheelie bins tipped over into piles, clutching each other for dear life; loose branches skittered along roads, with some trees uprooted; ferries stopped and planes were grounded, schools closed, motorists told to stay at home, with trees waving angrily and lights flickering as the winds raged for hour after hour.

The weather instruments up on Mt Kaukau were pulverised at 150kph which, I think history will agree, proved a wind-speed record.

I snapped into survivalist mode, baking a cake early in the afternoon in case the power went out later (I didn’t think about charging batteries, storing hot water or finding a torch, mind. My first thought was CAKE). Then I slung together a stodgy pasta bake with criminal quantities of cheese, and fried slices of hot dog. We might need the CALORIES, I reasoned as I made it, FOR BODY WARMTH.

Our cantankerous heating system flamed out early, confused by the sudden drop in outside air pressure. I tried to reset it a few times before accepting defeat and trudging to the carport to chop wood. While I was out there, a regular Laura Ingalls Wilder, I noticed a heavy stone had rolled along our garage roof in the wind and was now balancing dangerously on its street-side edge. In the interests of public safety and avoiding prison, I needed to bring it down. By climbing up. Using a stepladder. Alone, in a newsworthy storm.

I truly hope nobody saw me, crawling on my knees and lugging a stone backwards as the weather squalled around my ears and blew my hair into my mouth. It was an unusual thing to be doing during a Red Wind Warning, but I honestly had no choice. I think I’ve been exposed to musical theatre for too long because all I could hear while dragging it was

The BLOOD of the MARTYRS will water the meadows of FRANCE!

-Les Misérables

The stone is now in a safe place and my manicure is fine, but I can no longer refer to these trousers as my good cords.

What is it about the savagery of weather that brings out the worst in people? I spent the long, wild evening in front of the fire with the dog, cat, and kids, my husband stuck in Auckland along with half of white-collar Wellington, playing Uno and eating cake (three slices, if you MUST know) and waiting for the lights to go out. Every time there was a power dip, the kids got excited. George even wore his head-torch for a while. Every room but the lounge was glacial, every window a roiling scene. I scanned the live blogs for news, as comments poured in from people in various degrees of suffering (smashed windows, power cuts, floodwater, and one poor soul whose car was crushed by a tree).

But every now and then, someone in an unaffected part of the country would feel compelled to post something like,

NO WIND HERE IN SMUG-AS-SHITVILLE Bob

or

BEAUTIFUL SUNSET TONIGHT IN ARSEHOLE JUNCTION Shirley

or

GLAD I LEFT WELLINGTON FOR SCROTUM VALLEY. WOULDN’T LIVE THERE AGAIN IF YOU PAID ME IN BLUNTS. Tom

Like their decision to live somewhere which, on this particular evening, happens not to be bent double by a polar blast, is somehow evidence of better judgment. I’ve got news for you, Shirley. You’re probably next, and I’ll take pleasure that day in posting

TOPLESS WITH A MOJITO HERE IN CLOUDLESS KARORI. I MIGHT SUN MY LABIA SOON

There are also those determined people who won’t admit when the weather in their neck of the woods is so consistently awful, nobody understands why they don’t sell up and leave. There’s a wilful oblivion to it, which I admire. It’s a loyalty to their particular part of the world that I wish I had.

This is especially true of people in small, rural towns - often the places experiencing seasonal extremes, like hot, droughty summers and icy, bitter winters. But to country folk, nature is to be lived with, capable people cope, and they could be floating on an upturned table along a moving body of floodwater, and they’d still say, “Well, the roses needed a drink.”

Personally, I do nothing but grumble about Wellington’s climate. I’ve been here twenty years. I’ve no idea why I’ve stayed so long and every summer (when the firewood arrives on a truck) I marvel that I’ve committed yet again for another twelve months.

Still, our expensive new roof did its job, and our windows don’t rattle in the wind any longer. Our electricity, mercifully, stayed on. The dog went to sleep despite his nerves, though left me a little gift in his crate this morning; the cat curled against my stomach, purring, in bed.

There were many blessings. The storm lost interest and by morning, rolled through. We swept up the fragments. We wait now for sun.

Time in the hand is not control of time,
Nor shattered fragments of an instrument
A proof against the wind; the wind will rise,
We can only close the shutters.

Adrienne Rich, Storm Warnings

Just before I ruined my cords

Nice weather for toadstools

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