Yesterday afternoon, bruising winds shouldered hard against the house—some gusts so strong they made the framing crack its knuckles. Outside, low clouds were swept along, and even the sturdiest pine trees flailed without pause.
In a single word: scary.
The word for fear of the wind is anemophobia.
As a kid, I had it—though I didn’t know the name. What troubled me most was how
wind, an invisible force, could shove the world around so violently. And when
it came, it came for the whole valley.
I remember one especially fierce
storm: limbs torn from trees by unseen hands, a bucket skittering full speed
down the street. The strongest gales hit the house like sacks of sand. And
twice in my life, I’ve been deep in the forest when a microburst muscled
through the pines, making them sway and twist, groaning and cracking as they
bent. Both times, I froze in place—shocked and confused—as several lodgepole
pines toppled right in front of me.
In a word: anemophobia.
—Mitchell Hegman
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