I hate the wind. I hate it with a passion, and it has been that way forever

As an 11-year-old, I would ride my bike along country roads, as torrents of wind swept across fallow fields. I struggled to stay upright and keep my tear-stung eyes open. How often this happened, I don’t know. Once, a thousand times, it does not matter. I remember it.

I remember, too, setting aside my bike to run when I turned fourteen. I had caught the attention of the track coach, and his attention alone was enough to spur me on. I became a runner. The cold, heat, rain, snow had no effect. I was unbeatable. The wind, however, set me on my heels and knocked the breath out of me. 

For the longest time, I told no one any of this, until my Aunt Tootie. I had driven to

Covington, Kentucky. It had been 16 years since we had seen each other. I was reconnecting with relatives I had not seen since I was five.

Aunt Tootie owned a hair salon, a small wood-framed storefront that sat on the corner of two residential streets. She cancelled appointments, and we sat in styling chairs facing each other, reminiscing and catching up. She asked about running. A cousin had told her of my success.

I told her how running had gotten me in and through college. I said the only part I hated about it was the wind. “I don’t even like to walk down the street when it’s windy—"

“No. ” Her smile dissipated. “Seriously?” 

I nodded and smiled weakly.

“I need to tell you something,” she said. She lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “You don’t know this, but you need to. I need to go way back for this to make sense though. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. “Before your mom and I were born, when your granddad was a boy, there was a huge storm—storm of the century they called it. The Ohio River overran its banks. Wiped out everything. Old timers say we were under water for weeks biding time. When it finally receded, the only things left were muddy hills and broken homes…and the river, of course, but it had moved. It now divided Covington from Cincinnati.” She grimaced, seeing the disbelief in my face. “Anything of value ended up on the Cincinnati side. Us on the south bank were all but forgotten. It's been that way ever since.” Aunt Tootie nodded. “That’s the truth.” 

“Okay,” I muttered. 

She continued. “During the Depression and war, Dad, like a lot of people, crossed the river to work construction in Cincinnati. Right before I was born, and your mom was three, he—your granddad—had an accident. One day, over in Cincy, he was on some scaffolding six stories up and fell. He died two days later. No one knew what to tell your mom. Everyone thought she was too young to know. So, they told her a big wind took her daddy on a journey.” Aunt Tootie chortled. “Stupid, huh?”

I took a deep breath, having a hunch where this was going.

“You can imagine the effect it had on your mom, being a little girl and all,” Aunt Tootie said. “She was horrified the wind took her daddy away. She couldn’t comprehend it. And she became deathly afraid of the wind, Chris. She hated it.” Aunt Tootie reached over and slapped my thigh. “Hated it! There were days she wouldn’t go outside! And when she did, she was always grabbing onto something. She would go down the street grabbing fence posts, car mirrors, what have you—even people—making sure she had a hold before moving.”

“We got used to it and let her be. It just became who she was.” Aunt Tootie laughed softly and pulled on her cigarette. “Yep, and then years later, she got pregnant with you, Chris. That changed everything.” She exhaled and smiled. “Your mom was sooo happy when she learned she was pregnant. We all were.” She leaned forward and patted my knee again but softer. “I mean, she was 16 and having a baby. That’s a big deal.” Aunt Tootie saw my disbelief and shushed me with her hand. “You better believe it.” 

“So, what happened?”

“Your mom weighed ninety pounds wet, but she gained weight as you grew inside her. And you know what? She became more and more sure of herself. Before we knew it, she was going up and down the street showing off her bump. She wasn’t afraid of the wind no more. It was like it never happened. And then at seven months, you became too much for her. The doctor put her in bed. Told her not to move until you were born. She sulked a bit but got over it. And then you were born.”

I smiled, and Aunt Tootie winked at me.

“You were so beautiful, Chris,” she said. “We all wanted to take care of you, but your mom wouldn’t have it. It was like none of us sisters knew what we were doing, although there already were six nieces and nephews running around the house. She had to do it all. Mind you, after two months she still hadn’t left the house. She was getting her strength back though. Then one day she bundled you up and headed for the door. I asked where she was going. She said I should mind my own business. I pestered her to go and even followed her outside. I felt I had to go for some reason. She gave me the stink eye and said to keep my mouth shut and stay out of the way.”

Aunt Tootie shook her head at the memory and took another drag off her cigarette. “’You know how Covington is laid out?” she said. “Those hills rising up from the river?”

I nodded.

“We lived at the top of one of them a few blocks from here. Your mom, you, and I came out the door that day and walked along the crest. After a few blocks, we turned north and below us was the river, maybe a quarter mile away, tucked between buildings. Cincinnati lay beyond it, like some Land of Oz. And beyond that dark, heavy clouds kind of hung there.”

“We walked down the hill a couple of blocks, turned and went a few more blocks before turning again and heading back up. The whole time your mom’s stopping and talking, stopping      

and talking—to everyone, neighbors, strangers. People sitting on their stoops. She’s showing you off. It’s ‘Chris this, Chris that.’ I could see she was getting tired. When we got back to the top, I asked if I could hold you. ‘No,’ she said. I kept asking; she kept saying no. In fact, the more I asked, the more determined she got. She walked right past our house. She was going around again! At the next corner, I asked one last time, ‘Can I carry Chris?’ Your mom looked at me, hair blowing across her face. She looked so tired.  Her eyes were so sad looking. ‘I can take him for a while,’ I said, expecting a big fat ‘no.’ But she nodded. ‘Just for a moment,’ she whispered.

Aunt Tootie, who had been staring at her lap, looked at me. “I remember starting to turn the corner and looking down that hill. Suddenly, I felt very cold. The sky had gotten dark, like it was dusk. Garbage was swirling around the street down by the river. People were holding their hats, skirts, what have you, and hanging on to things to keep from being blown over. I saw it coming.” She shook her head and hesitated, her mouth closing then opening.

“I reached for you, Chris.” Aunt Tootie held out her arms, showing me what she did. “I wrapped my arms around you as I looked at your mom. She was looking at you. In her eyes, I saw the clouds swirling around. I pulled you from her and stepped back around the corner. Your mom stood there, looking at you as I pulled away. Your blanket blew up over your face. All that garbage flew past, and I squinted by eyes shut. When I opened them and looked up, your mom was gone. ”

Aunt Tootie looked at me. “That’s why you hate the wind, Chris.”