Last afternoon and evening, we had an enormous wind and dust storm, known as a haboob. I suppose this term is Middle Eastern in origin but I think the local weatherman continues to use it so, come commercial breaks, he can giggle and say, “Ha, ha! I said boob on TV.” (My mother and I have concocted a theory that all local newscasters come from an island somewhere full of shallow talkative people with big hair that are helicoptered out as positions become available.) The winds topped 50 mph and once darkness fell, the whistles and groans the heavy gusts created gave me the feeling of, rather than living in an adobe home in the Sonoran Desert, I was huddled in an old stone cottage on the moors of northern England. I felt as if Heathcliff was going to come bursting in anytime lamenting the loss of Catherine and morosely leaning his heavy head against his arm on the mantle of the nonexistent giant stone fireplace. (Yes, I was alone other than a sleeping Pint; yes, I have a vivid imagination; and yes, I am still taking painkillers.)
This morning many things are placed differently than they were before said haboob. The patio furniture upstairs and down is upside down and sideways. Thankfully, we remembered to close the umbrellas and lay them on their sides unlike the last time when, even though the umbrella was closed, it launched missile-style from the roof top deck and committed hari-kari by plunging point first into the ground and breaking into a million pieces. The inflatable pool toys are no more as they were thrown pell-mell into cacti and, once deflated, ended up in tree limbs and stuck in between fence posts. In addition, all the straw that we had carefully raked into lamb-friendly bedding areas is now on the opposite side of the big yard, covering what little we have left of the sod. We lost the shingles from the original ruminant shelter (we have changed to tin roofs in the construction of all further enclosures) and the goat pen is littered with tar paper and other roof-building detritus. As you can tell, I’ve got oodles of clean-up to tackle and no David-the-Husband today, but since I’ve misplaced my helmet and shoulder pads, I will put if off until I have the energy to find them. Interestingly enough, all the VM- (vegetal matter) filled wool I used as garden mulch stayed perfectly in place, furthering my admiration for its stability and usefulness, as well as its warm and fuzzy producers.
Speaking of which, we are still on Charlotte lambing watch. She’s become weary of my looming presence and of me staring at her private parts, which are noticeably swollen. I have been told this means she is effacing and dilating and lambing could occur anytime. As David the Husband is away for business overnight, it will probably happen while he is gone. At least, that’s his fear and mine. As always, I will keep you posted.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go stare at Charlotte’s vagina for the millionth time. Here’s a little something sheepy to keep you entertained while we await the blessed event:
How did you know that I promised my wonderful Kiwi son-in-law that the first male this year born on Sheep Thrills will be registered as "Sheep Thrills Shaun"????
We are HUGE W&G fans! Too bad they don't play more of these up here.
Our winds were TERRIBLE yesterday! And then we had snow this morning, too...in fact, it's snowing right now! Since everyone was sheared, can you say "Brrrrrr"? (Remember, these are Scottish sheep so roll those rrrr's)
Posted by: Kathy | March 28, 2007 at 02:39 PM
W&G rock!! Too bad my kids are scared of the Were-Rabbit. I'll just have to watch it again after they're in bed.
Sheep, and a dog who knits? Can't go wrong there.
No snow here, rain and 50s temps. Great weather for mailing someone some YARN. I won't mention any names.
Posted by: Beth in WI | March 28, 2007 at 03:15 PM
Someone, namely DH, played hari-kari with my packed schedule today by letting the alternator in his vet truck die. I had to drop everything and tow him back to town, then wait around for him to replace said dead alternator, then jump his honkin' big truck with my pulling truck, as most other trucks are too wimpy to do it. Sigh. I didn't get another fleece skirted, I didn't ride my horse, I didn't work on the church newsletter, and I won't get to knit. Maybe walking around the house saying "Haboob" over and over will cheer me up. Hee!
Posted by: Michelle | March 28, 2007 at 09:49 PM
The winds here in Oceanside (CA) yesterday hit 45+ in my back yard and I worried all day that trees on my hill would come down. Then it got cold. It's down in the 30's here tonight. I must say that STS Video made me laugh til I cried --- especially since my son used to play soccer! Thanks for the laugh. I really needed it! Between that, Haboob, and poor Charlotte's V-Watch, I had a rather enjoyable few minutes at YOUR expense!!
Posted by: Karalyn | March 29, 2007 at 03:02 AM
It really IS called a haboob (although I'm not sure of the spelling). As a child I lived in Khartoum, Sudan, and we had them regularly. Sand and grit would sift under every door and windowsill. We would see it coming from miles away and hurry to shut everything up tight, even in the hottest weather.
Love your site...I am pretending to farm vicariously every day!
Posted by: Beth T | March 29, 2007 at 07:31 AM