Who taught the trees to sing like the ocean?

Yeah, I wrote a really cheesy poem back in my poetry-writing days with a similar title. But it came back to me today on my noon-time walk with Nekes. I struggle with my vow to try and embrace the fact that I now live in the windiest part of Ontario, and weeks like this one - gusts up to 75km/h! - test me to my wind-hating limits. You'd think the 42 windmills dotting the countryside would have given me a hint about what to expect. (I never said I was the sharpest knife in the drawer...)

In Waterloo, distant highway 86 traffic was the white noise of my life, always in the background but never intrusive. If I really faked myself out, I could pretend it was the sound of waves - who knew that traffic and happy, calm waves would sound so darned similar?

I'm learning how different country background noise is from city noise. I know that seems like an obvious point, but what I mean is that it's probably about the same amount in decibels, but the quality of the sound up here is so different. The only thing I really miss from the city is the train; growing up in New Hamburg I could hear the distant whistle as it floated in my bedroom window, living in Waterloo it rattled my windowpanes and vibrated the floor under my toes. Here, I have wind to do all that.

There's been a roar in the air for the past three days: wind grappling with the trees in the grove and wrestling with the waves on the lake. It's constant. Unnerving at times. Like it's trying to get in, pick me up and hurl me off into space. On Monday night, the dull growl outside the bedroom window escalated into a sudden, angry ROAR. I lept out of bed and fled to the living room couch where D was coming down from his weekly hockey game high. He had paused in mid-spoonful of rice pudding and his eyes were as wide as my own.

Him: "Did you hear that?"
Me, cowering in the crook of his arm. "YES!"

Later we heard about the tornado warnings. In January! Good Lord.