“…because this place is a dump and I’m bored out of my mind!” Dylan yelled as he slammed the screen door and ran down the porch steps.

Spending the spring break with his grandmother and his eccentric mother in a dilapidated old fishing cabin was not his idea of fun. The place didn’t even have television for Pete’s sake. What did they expect him to do every day? He was mad that he couldn’t stay at home in the city with his friends who were no doubt staying out late every night and partying. This wasn’t the kind of beach where young people hung out - all rocks and crosscurrents - and to top it all off, the weather was lousy.

He ran down the shore and pulled the hood of his sweat shirt over his head to keep the rain from running down his neck into his shirt. The wind whipped the waves into a boiling froth and they crashed at his feet with a deafening roar. Head down he ran on, grumbling to himself and holding imaginary conversations in his mind where he had the last word and got his way. As if out of spite another wave broke at his ankles and drenched him to his thighs. Dylan stopped running and swore in vain, out to sea: a string of curses that no 14 year old would dare use around adults. The gusts whipped his words back at him.

“Lovely weather we’re having!” bellowed an amused old man in oil skins from the rocks to his left.

“Yeah, right,” muttered Dylan. One of the crazy locals, he thought, I’m surrounded by geriatrics and weirdoes.

Exhausted, wet and feeling very sorry for himself, Dylan went to sit on a rock and watched the gulls surfing the air currents, swooping every now and then to snatch up morsels of bait and offal the old man threw them. He was out of breath but still fuming.

“Come on over lad,” called the old man, “You look like a drowned rat. Fancy a cuppa tea?”

“I’m fine, just leave me alone” replied Dylan and huddled down, shoving his hands in his pockets.

The old fisherman ambled over the rocks and sat down next to him. He was carrying an ancient rod, a tackle box, and a bucketful of fish. He produced a thermos flask, poured, and passed it to Dylan without saying a word.
Dylan scowled but took it gratefully, he was soaked and now that he’d stopped running he shivered, his lips turning blue. The tea smelled slightly of fish, but was hot and sweet and had just a hint of scotch to it.

“Thank you, sir” Dylan mumbled, suddenly remembering his manners.

“Och, that’s better” winked the old man, “You must be Millie Harper’s grandson. Am I right?”

“Uh, yeah, how did you know?” asked Dylan, bewildered.

The old man chuckled, his brown weather-beaten face exploding into a net of laugh lines. “There’s not much wha’ happens here that I don’t know, lad.” He thrust out his hand for the boy to shake. “Angus Stuart’s me name, but you can call me Angus.”

“Dylan” the boy introduced himself as the old man almost crushed his hand.

“Let’s get you dry then, you’ll catch the death of you sitting out in this blustery weather”

Dylan followed him over the rocks and up a crude set of steps to a stone cottage. They were greeted at the door by a lank tabby who seemed more interested in the contents of the bucket than her master’s return. The place was dimly lit by a couple of small windows that let in whistling drafts and showed the black clouds racing by. Angus produced a pair of thick socks, a woollen pullover and a plate of ginger snaps. He stoked a wood-burning range and filled the kettle, motioning for Dylan to hang his wet sweatshirt over the back of a chair next to it.

They ate and drank in relative silence till Angus jumped up gathered an assortment of materials to the table. There were wooden dowels and twine, garbage bin liners and duct tape. He was struggling to lash the dowels together when he asked Dylan to come give him a hand, ”My fingers aren’t as nimble as they once were, come here and help me tie these confounded things together”

They worked three rods in to a star shape and then Angus joined the ends with twine to form a hexagon. He pulled out a pocket-knife and slit the bin liners at the seam and opened them up. Dylan held the frame while he cut the plastic to shape and they both chuckled when the duct tape got the better of them.

“What are we making?” asked Dylan, his curiosity getting the better of his sullen mood.

“Just something for a friend” Angus grinned, tying a length of twine to one corner and attaching strips of old rag to the end.

By the time they were done, it had stopped raining, and the racing cumulous had slowed in the steady breeze. Angus fetched a sheepskin jacket for Dylan and pulled on a turtleneck jumper. He gathered up the contraption and called from the open doorway, “Well, don’t you want to try it out?”

They walked down to the water line and Angus gave Dylan the frame to hold while he attached the roll of twine. He walked backward, paying out the line and then called for the youth to hold the frame above his head. Dylan battled to hold it upright as the wind threatened to tear it away. The old man jerked the string and the kite freed itself from his grasp. Up, up it flew, tugging impatiently at the string and dancing from side to side in the gusty air.

“Awesome!” Dylan whooped with delight.

Angus handed him the string and stood back admiring his handiwork; the kite rose higher and the boy laughed, his spirits soaring with it.

"That's strange," old Dub Sherman said, as he brushed the dirt from his hands. He loved tinkering with this old tractor, the first one he'd ever owned.

"What is?" his wife Becky asked him.

"Not a bird in the sky. Not a bird singin' neither. Danged unusual this time of day..."

Becky shrugged her shoulders and started to walk back into the house. "Well, I done my duty and told you dinner was ready, but I'm thinking you better get yourself cleaned up before you're fit for the dinner table."

Dub chuckled to himself and mopped his brow with an old paisley hankie. He looked up at the sky with a frown.

"Danged strange... Spooky too."

Twenty minutes and a quick shower later, Dub sat down at the dinner table. Pot roast and potatoes, fresh green beans, and he could smell a cherry pie still cooling. He hadn't married Becky just for her cooking, but it would have been a good enough reason.

They were about five minutes into the meal and well into a conversation over whether Pastor Sutton's interest in the widow Schultz was purely spiritual when the wind kicked up.

"Land sakes, that's quite a blow," Becky said in surprise. "I wouldn't be surprised if that's enough to blow that pie clean off the windowsill."

She got up and went into the kitchen, returning a few moments later. "Yes sir, really quite a blow..."

It was less than ten minutes later when they heard the goats. The Sherman farm grew wheat and pole pines as its cash crops. But there was also a family vegetable garden and Becky kept a small herd of goats, mostly because she just liked goats. She had been around them her whole life, but it wasn't until her 63rd year that she heard one scream.

"Oh my word, Dub! Have you ever heard such a noise from them?" She was clearly frightened. "You best go check on them right away."

Dub tried to hide his own fear at the sounds they were making as he rose from the table and walked through the kitchen to the back door. He opened it and was hit by a gust that felt like it came out of an oven. When he had come inside for dinner, it had been hot, but no more than 85 or so. Now, the thermometer on the back porch was stuck at its highest reading, 120 degrees. The goats were in a panic. Three of them were on their sides, overcome by the wind and heat. It was all Dub could do to stand the heat long enough to turn a hose on them and wet them down a bit to cool them off. He hurried back into the house, noticing that this hot wind was starting to make crackles in his four-month-old paint job.

"Something just ain't right. I ain't never felt a wind that hot, not in all my years," Dub said, his voice dry and raspy.

"What? What is it?" Becky asked.

"Don't know. It's a windstorm all right, a regular gale. But it's hot, blasted hot. I saw the temperature outside was as high as it could go, one twenty!"

"Are the goats okay?"

"I hosed 'em down with water, they looked okay for the moment, but I don't know."

A look of deep concern crossed Becky's face. "Maybe you better bring them inside if it's too much for you to get them to the barn."

"Inside the HOUSE?" Dub shot back.

"Dub Sherman! They are God's creatures too and if you don't go get them, I will."

So it was that Dub and Becky Sherman and eight frightened goats found themselves trying to get through one of the strangest weather events in the history of Texas.

For the next two hours, the Shermans' house clattered, creaked, howled and generally protested its treatment by the elements. The house went dark as electric lines were blown down. They lit candles. Finally, the windstorm stopped as suddenly as it had begun. It was nearly 9 P.M. Inside the house it was now stiflingly hot. Goats bleated in discomfort.

"I'm going to stick my head outside," Dub said after waiting a good long time to be sure the wind had really stopped.

"You just be careful," Becky cautioned.

Moving slowly and deliberately, Dub made his way to the back door. He touched the glass quickly. It did not burn his hand. Grabbing and lighting a lantern from the kitchen cupboard, he opened the door. The air felt delightfully cool.

"It's cool out here!" he shouted back to Becky.

"Compared to the way it just was, 90 degrees would feel cool! You be careful," she responded.

Dub stepped out onto the back porch. It was comfortably cool, but now deathly silent once more. He looked back at the house. His new paint job was clearly ruined. There was a smell in the air, actually a quite pleasant smell, but a lifetime of farming experience told Dub the smell meant there would be no wheat harvest this fall. He told himself that the hot wind that stole his wheat might have made his pine trees more valuable, by curing the wood before he even cut the trees down. He smiled at his joke while wishing it were true.

Dub knew that there would be a lot of work to do, but that would start the next morning. For now, he went inside and reassured Becky that everything was safe, and got them danged goats back outside where they belonged before collapsing in his bed and falling asleep immediately.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

This freak hot windstorm would become a Texas legend. It would be talked about for years by weathermen, each with a pet theory of how it had happened. But the people of Seymour, Texas had long since come to refer to the storm as "the night the Devil blew on Texas."