Wind
I work near the windiest corner in Roanoke. Say what you will about whatever confluence of avenues toss an occasional chilly gust in your neighborhood, the gale-force tempest in my neck of the woods could launch a Sumo air-born on a still summer day.

What is the deal with the wind around here lately? When I moved to Roanoke some twenty-five years ago the weather was delightful. Now, all of a sudden, I routinely witness giant blue garbage bins bouncing down the boulevard like stampeding cattle escaping a spring branding.

Earlier this year my son's backyard batting cage sprouted wings in a high wind and was threatening to topple our neighbor's new patio set. Janet, Will and I braved the weather and managed to corral the would-be aircraft, which, at one point, had lifted me three feet off of the ground! You might not be able to tell by glancing at my grinning headshot that accompanies this column, but I am not a small man. In fact, the last shirt I purchased came with a set of tent stakes and a free Coleman lantern. Therefore, when unseen forces lift me skyward, you are looking at a bona-fide Typhoon.

This is not my first battle with the elements of nature. Years ago, I worked in a dress factory (with my Dad and sister Emily), located on West Fifteenth Street and Tenth Avenue in Manhattan. The southwest corner of that location was known to be the windiest corner in all of New York. Those who dared to turn that evil corner would be treated to an Arctic blast of biblical proportions. Legend has it that one powerful blow cleared every street in Manhattan of it's garbage, carrying the refuse Southeast and thus creating the great state of New Jersey.

Connie Sorrentonio, a life-long co-worker of my father, and I woman to be reckoned with, once traveled to work from her apartment in Brooklyn, spied a patch of ice on Fifteenth Street, watched quietly as a group of unsuspecting commuters were knocked flat by an unfriendly current, spun around and returned home to Brooklyn unscathed. Connie was no more than forty feet from the factory door when she surrendered to the elements.

Though it might not be as formidable has the Fifteenth Street Terror, my Roanoke location still packs quite a wallop. If you are ever bored enough to test the draft of which I speak, drive down to the little strip mall in the outer ring of Valley View Mall, where sits, Sprint, Catherine's, and the Casual Male Men's Shop. Begin your journey at the Sprint Store and point yourself due east towards Shaker's. When you reach the end of the men's store, turn left and grab your hat, you have just entered the Valley View Mall's "Squall Zone."

During optimum conditions there is a constant gust wafting over a large unobstructed field sitting behind the building that serves as a gathering vortex. Add a roof skimming in-bound flight landing at nearby Roanoke Regional Airport and the atmosphere reveals the burial ground of where umbrellas go to die.

Thankfully, the incoming airplane traffic is minimal in Roanoke, unlike in my previous homeland. ( I once dated a young lady would lived smack in the middle of the International flights landing path at JFK airport in New York. Every seven minutes her house would shake and rattle like a freight train was passing through their living room, earning their dwelling the nickname "Little House on the Runway.") Any more landings in Roanoke and our little store might be thrust over the rainbow, claiming a new retail home on a vacant street corner in East Munchkinland.

Since my impromptu flight with the batting cage I have remained earth-bound despite the ill winds that blow outside of my office door. My son commented that I should contact the nice folks at Macy's and offer my flight services for the upcoming annual Thanksgivings Day parade, perhaps replacing the M&M's balloon that crashed into a lamp post last year. While I appreciate Will's sincere recommendation, I believe I will remain grounded, just like my fresh-mouthed spawn, who's car keys now reside in my roomy pocket.