I have always hated the wind. Since we moved here to this hillside, exposed to anything the river wants to throw at us, I hate it even more. It is hard to believe that it could make a place this old and big and strong shudder and bend to its will, but it does. Oh, how it does.

Earlier this morning it was so darned unnaturally beautiful for January that I kept finding excuses to go outside and hang around. The horses finally could get out after all the ice the past few weeks. They loved it and bucked and rooted around in the mud and rolled like fools. Becky even took a few pictures of DG bucking and teasing Jack to play through the fence.

We were all in the house when it hit. Wham. Like a fist. Like a mountain. Like a landslide of cold, hard air. Thirty seconds after the first gust it ripped my greenhouse from its moorings and gave it the old who-flung. The girls could not get out to bring the horses in for several minutes because it was just too dangerous to even try to go outdoors. You couldn't even hang on to the big, heavy, wooden back door.

Now it has cleared off some. The horses are happy back in their stalls with a big feed of hay to help them warm up and dry off. However, my Christmas present is smashed into the mud on the other side of the driveway, with its legs in the air like a dead raccoon on the side of the highway. Maybe the guys can salvage it later when the wind dies down.