The Wind in Livingston

The Wind in Livingston

It is so windy in Livingston that
highway patrol officers use a pneumatic ballpoint pen , designed by
NASA, that forces ink onto the citation, to keep it from escaping
before marking the paper.

All the cemetery markers are flat,
embedded in the rocky soil, to save the expense of replacing toppled
and broken granite headstones.

Windsocks rarely last more than a week.
You know the wind is up to speed when the fabric sock stands straight
out, like a plastic highway cone on its side.

Windmills generate so much electricity
the excess production depresses electricity prices in the region.
Sometimes the blades get bent back, like ears on an obstinate mule.
Then prices return to normal.

People open their kitchen door and lob
the garbage. It is not considered littering because the detritus
scatters, landing in Minneapolis, where it unfortunately is
considered littering.

When the county road department
replaces a cattle guard, the workers turn loose of the old one and it
removes itself. It doesn’t stop tumbling across the prairie until
it comes to a low spot, like the Badlands.

When you go outdoors you have to
account for which direction the wind is blowing. Plug the windward
ear. Otherwise you run the risk of having your brains blasted clear.
What dog droppings are to some citys’ sidewalks, brain piles are to
Livingston.

Depending on direction, the hair of the
males of the species looks like a Pat Riley “slick-back”, or a
Donald Trump “comb-over”. If your follicles are weak, you
eventually look like Yul Brynner.

AKC dogs wear weights; mutts take their
chances. Sometimes many mutts get blown against snow fences in packs.
They flail their legs helplessly but they can’t get free until the
wind takes one of its rare breaks. Owners carry food to them and feed
them with cake decorating tubes.

A rock must be the size of a Toyota to
hold its ground. Smaller rocks roll, bowling things out of their way.
Some lighter rocks even go airborne and fly hundreds of yards, like
baseballs from a pitching machine.

Building codes call for hurricane
straps made of titanium to keep roofs from levitating away from their
houses.

Wind can blow clothes pins off a
clothesline, a clothesline made of high-grade cable, that is.

Cows have devised an aid to sleeping.
They did this by observing geese in flight. They, the cows, take
turns blocking the wind at night. The herd lays in a line downwind
from the lead cow, strung out across the prairie. Every half an hour
the weary lead cow gets up and goes to the end of the line to find
some relief. The next cow takes the buffeting.

Farmers turn a round bale ninety
degrees and the wind unrolls it. Cows follow, rapidly devouring the
unrolled swath, while they can, usually on the run.

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