I WAS A HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR in Amarillo when Mad About You—a TV show that was never very funny, but Helen Hunt was on it and the dog was cute—aired an episode about wind. In this episode, Yoko Ono guest starred as Yoko Ono. Why not? She was there to challenge Paul Reiser’s character, a documentary film-maker appropriately named Paul, to capture the essence of wind. Paul spent the episode repeating the word “wind” and brain-storming ways to film the wind. He could not do it. Eventually, he and Yoko agreed it was a bad idea. You can’t film the wind. I remember-watching that episode and thinking, just come to Amarillo, dummy.
In my well-earned, I-grew-up-in-Amarillo hubris, I have decided it’s time to show up that fictional character—and Yoko Ono, too. This’ll be easy. I know all about the wind.
I spent a good portion of my childhood losing everything to the wind, from Frisbees and kites to that really cool cowboy hat my grandma gave me. I’ve yanked tumble-weeds off the grill of my old Bonneville.
I’ve picked up relatives at the airport and dutifully shrugged as I said, “What, this? This is a calm day.” I’m still in trouble for the time I didn’t hang on to the door of my mom’s Ford, and it slammed into the neighbor’s Trans Am. I maintain that I weighed less than the door, Mom. I’ve spent my years since leaving Amarillo shaking my head at anyone who dares offer an opinion on wind.
Spend any time in the Panhandle and you’ll hear someone tell you there’s nothing between us and the North Pole but barbed wire fence. Or, more often: “Smells like money.” Which was a little confusing. I was always sniffing coins I found for a certain barnyard smell before I put them in my pocket. My great-great-grandparents moved to the Panhandle as children in covered wagons. I grew up hearing their stories, from my great-grandparents and grandparents, about the Dust Bowl. How the relentless wind pulverized the
