Wind and Wattle

I know I mentioned Saturday... among all the blathering about pumpkins and how I adore fall... that it was storming violently. And when I said violently, I meant, there was violence. The wind and beating rain enacted a force of meanness on the trees the likes of which I'd never seen.

Here's how it happened: I was sitting in the library, trying to finish an awful book I wished I'd never bought, when suddenly I heard a boom. Then a craaaaack. Then the sound of a thousand heavy leaves falling. All was silent for a second, then came a thud. The house trembled. Millie jumped and I screamed and together we raced through the library, across the entry and into the dining room.

We stayed there, beside lit candles and pumpkins, while the wind blew. And wouldn't you know, within several moments history repeated itself: boom... craaaaack... falling... thud... tremble. (Note: it takes more than your average bear to frighten me. I was scared to death.)

Turns out the parts of two trees, a cottonwood and a pecan, had fallen from the sky to the house to the ground. One branch - the one by the kitchen - landed on the kitchen steps. I know it doesn't seem so alarming from the picture above, but that branch is 13 inches across and over 20 feet long.

So, when the wind gives you branches what do you make? Wattle. You make wattle. A sort of wattle fence, that is. A non-willow, Texified version. Ever since Saturday I have determined to become an expert Texas wattler, making wattle the likes of which no one has ever seen. Wattle that will impress my friends and astonish my neighbors.

You're laughing? I hear you laughing. It's okay. I'm cracking up, too. I'm laughing all the way to my new wattle fencing. For where there's a windy will, there's a windy way. Where there's wind, there's wattle.

At least that's what I always say. (laugh)