From the Crow’s Nest
by CLINT YOUNTS
It was a dark and stormy night. A frigid, biting wind swept across the sandy beach. The night was so cold the stars wouldn’t even come out from their heavenly abode. The bitter cold had Winter Texans pulling out their maps in search of a more temperate location for their four-month hibernation. These migratory pilgrims had visions of warm, sunny days walking along the beaches of Mustang Island while their neighbors up in Wisconsin, Minnesota or some other ungodly state are shoveling snow and breaking hips on ice-painted steps. These poor, transient souls must’ve been cursing the frigid weather that suddenly swept into their southern retreat. Hey, welcome to Texas, y’all!
Earlier that afternoon, as Maw and I were waiting to board the ferry, I wondered if this would be a wasted weekend at the beach. It was supposed to be cold and wet in Port Aransas that weekend, but we didn’t care. It would be even colder back in Hays County, and this trip was mainly planned for rest and recovery after working every weekend since Christmas on a house makeover. What’s more restful than a cold day at the beach? Besides, this is Texas. If you don’t like today’s weather, just wait ’til tomorrow. It’ll change.
I have lived in three different states over the past half-century, the majority of those years here in the Lone Star State. In Tennessee and Kentucky, as I reckon it is in most states north of the Red River, once a cold front, or as we Texans call it, a norther, blows in, it stays cold there for a long spell. I recall my four years up in Knoxville, studying Animal Science and looking for female companionship, not at the same time or place I might add, once Old Man Winter moseyed on down from the Smoky Mountains for a visit, he rarely went home until late March. During one winter, might’ve been in ’78 or ’79, it snowed every stinkin’ Thursday for six weeks; no joke! It would snow on a Thursday, and by Tuesday most of the snow and slush would be gone, just in time for another inch or two of fresh powder on the ground by the time I had to walk to the Thursday morning class.
Six weeks of freezing my razoo off, slipping on icy steps and sledding down “The Hill” on borrowed cafeteria trays. Six weeks of not seeing the pretty faces or figures of gals on campus because they are bundled up like the little brother in “A Christmas Story.” Yup, once winter settled onto this Tennessee town, it stayed cold forever!
Down here in Texas, where an accurate weather forecast is as rare as a politician with nothing to say, there’s no telling what’s in store for us tomorrow. It can be bitterly cold one night, laying frost upon our pumpkins, allowing us South Texans to see a snow-like scene the next morning. Then by early afternoon, the jackets come off and shirt sleeves are rolled up. Here in Texas, this is a common occurrence, but unfortunately, the other extreme is just as familiar.
I recollect one afternoon in March a few decades ago, as I was mowing a pasture of dead grass and rock-hard cow patties, wearing just a pearl-button shirt since no jacket was needed on that warm, cloudy day I noticed a stark change in the northern sky. A mean-looking stretch of dark blue clouds was fast-approaching over the northern horizon. For you folks who just migrated to Texas, this blue streak of ugly clouds is what we natives call a “blue norther.” Some farmers call it other names, but I’m a southern gentleman who refrains from such profanity.
I’m not exactly sure why it is called a “blue norther.” Perhaps it’s due to the dark blue clouds that precede the blustery, cold wind, or maybe it’s due to the crystalline Caribbean-blue skies we have after the strong gusts push all our gloomy gray clouds out into the gulf. Personally I think it’s named a blue norther after the bluish tint of our lips and uninsulated toes once the front passes through.
Back to that particular afternoon perched on that old John Deere, I witnessed an abrupt temperature change. The margarita-cold wind chilled me to the bone, causing me to crouch behind the rear wheels, warming my stiffening fingers in the tractor’s exhaust. Once the wind died down a tad and my tears melted, allowing me to see, I called it a day and drove back to the barn. I figured I could finish the mowing the next day once Old Man Winter was chillin’ on the beach of South Padre and our day would be cool but sunny.
As for my weekend in Port Aransas, sitting on the balcony, donning a warm sweater and sipping piping-hot coffee, I was able to relax and watch ships cruise between the jetties. I listened to the waves crashing and the sea gulls chattering. I watched some elderly folks walk by, wrapped up in coats you can’t find at any Kohl’s in South Texas, conversing in a language similar to English but with a strange accent that my Southern brain couldn’t decipher. I’m not sure what they were discussing, but I bet it had something to do with the current climate. I wanted to holler at them and say, “If y’all don’t like this weather, just wait until tomorrow. Welcome to Texas!”
Clint Younts tries to outrun those blue northers by running for the sand. He works at a veterinary clinic while running cattle on his property between Kyle and Buda.
