The Wind Knows No Mercy
The wind roars through the Ozark Mountains, tearing across the homestead with gusts well over 40 mph. The barndo shakes under the force, tin roof rattling like thunder, walls creaking as if the whole place is caught in a storm-tossed sea. The forecast insists it won’t drop below 34°, that the blizzard to the north won’t reach us.
But Oldwayon Homestead knows better.
The rain hasn’t turned to ice yet, but the wind is fierce, slamming against anything not bolted down. The kind of wind that shifts suddenly, finds the weak spots, and rips them apart. That’s why on Monday, we reinforced the chicken run, adding extra layers of tin roofing to break the wind. We secured it under the main coop’s eave cap, made sure the chickens had dry bedding, a good roof over their heads.
And for the most part, it worked.
The flock is safe, huddled together in the coop, warm and dry. But Gimpy Chicken isn’t with them.
She’s in her makeshift bucket shelter, a temporary fix we rigged up, with vent holes for airflow and a heavy stone on top to keep it from becoming airborne. It’s kept her dry so far, but with this wind, with the temperature hovering at the edge of freezing, it’s not safe. If the storm shifts just a little, she won’t stand a chance.
And then there are the tea bushes—planted in cut-off 55-gallon drums, their soil packed with precious red wigglers, the quiet workers of the homestead. If the temperature drops just a few degrees, the worms won’t survive, and losing them means losing the foundation of next season’s soil.
There’s no waiting. It’s time to move them.
The tractor groans to life, the little 25hp New Holland rattling as I throw it into 4WD. The tea barrels sit heavy on the pallet, the soil soaked through from the rain, worms burrowed deep, probably sensing the shift in pressure. I ease the forks underneath, lift slowly—the rear wheels come off the ground, just for a second, before settling back down as the machine struggles forward. It’s barely enough. The wind howls against the tractor, trying to push me sideways as I crawl toward the barndo, the pallet swaying slightly with every gust.
At the barn, I hit the remote, and the auto garage door opener groans, straining against the wind. The second it cracks open, a blast of freezing mountain air rushes in, stealing the warmth right out of the space. The wind sucks at the door, fighting it all the way up. Rain whips inside, dampening the dirt floor before I can roll in with the pallet. The warmth of the barn is gone in an instant.
I set the pallet down and jump off the tractor just as the wind howls again, sending the tin roof shuddering overhead.
Now for Gimpy Chicken.
I hurry to her shelter, fingers numb as I pry the stone off the lid. She blinks up at me, half-asleep, trusting. She’s dry—for now. But one shift in the wind, one wrong gust, and that would change fast.
She doesn’t fight as I tuck her inside my jacket, her warmth pressed against my chest as I hurry back to the barn.
Inside, the world still shakes. The tin roof shutters, creaks, but holds. The wind screams outside, but everything that needed saving is safe—for now.
I set Gimpy Chicken back into her double-bucket makeshift shelter, this time lined with fresh cedar woodchips instead of straw. It’s not perfect, but at least she’s dry. Safe.
Well… as warm as the barndo is, anyway. Above freezing. Out of the wind. That’s all that matters tonight.
Outside, the wind howls, rattling the walls like a wolf at the door. Snow? Ice? Power outages?
God only knows.
For now, I shut the bay door, sealing out the storm as best I can.
That’s homesteading in the Ozarks. You don’t trust the forecast. You don’t wait to see if the storm gets worse. You act before it does.
Never a dull moment on Oldwayon Homestead.
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