Diane L'xeis' Benson: At Home in the Windstorm

“Oh gosh! The door’s like to blow off!”

Wind spirits push with such force that I can barely get through the trailer door. Marty leaps from the kitchen to help. He takes the bag of groceries and sets it on the counter.

“Can you help me get baby’s stuff inside? It’s been in the car since yesterday.”

Out the door he goes in T-shirt, cut-offs, and the worn tennis shoes he never takes off. I watch through the window in appreciation. I hate leaving things, even in the car.

“It’s kind of warm for a March wind,” he says as he re-enters. “How’d your math test go?”

“The test is tomorrow.” School, baby, work—sometimes it feels like too much.

“Don’t worry, you got it,” he says as he puts the groceries away. “Hey, you want some tea? I made some bread too. Oh, and the little creep’s asleep.”

A man who makes bread and puts the baby down. Can’t beat that.

“He’s not a creep!” I say. The lights flicker. With tea and bread with honey in hand, I settle down on the sofa. The windows whistle, and I pull a Pendleton blanket around me. It feels so good and safe . . .

“Wup, I hear him. How long was he sleeping?” I ask as I go get him. I hope not too long.

“About two hours,” Marty replies. I curl up with baby on the couch.

Out the window I can see a garbage can beating its way down the street. Well, I’ll be up tonight. Frankly, I’d rather be up because of my neighbor’s music.

“This bread is so good. Good job,” I say.

I never could bake. It’s nice having him around. Marty left Fairbanks to be with us in Anchorage even though we split up two years ago. In the interim, I had a baby and another broken relationship. Pregnant, I worked at Tundra Times newspaper until our paychecks came later and later and then stopped entirely. Thanks to three years on the pipeline, I had at least secured a home in south Anchorage, albeit a trailer in Dimond Estates. No complaints. I have a healthy six-month old baby, I’m not alone, and we have food. I bite into warm bread.

“Oh, it’s really picking up out there.”

A neighbor’s wind chime snaps and crashes.

‘Wind spirit has its own song,’ I surmise. I squeeze baby closer. He drools from teething. “Poor baby, how about some more muktuk?”

I pull some out of the fridge as Marty makes a face. He is Italian and an Army brat. His family moved to Alaska when his father got stationed in Fairbanks. He never developed a taste for Native food. One of our many differences. When I moved north from the fish-filled life of Southeast Alaska, I took to muktuk, moose, and seal meat rather naturally. Baby chews on muktuk, Marty wipes down counters, and I pace. I hear the trailer creak and the sound of crackling roof metal with each wind-burst.

“I think I’ll go lie down in the bedroom with him,” I tell Marty. “I don’t like this.”

I never liked winds. Reminds me of childhood in Ketchikan—futilely looking for safety in the arms of foster parents. Especially during storms.

“Oh, it’ll be fine. You want a hot toddy?”

“No,” I say. I try to steady my nerves as I peer out the window facing the Chugach Range.

Ordinarily, I have this great view of the mountains—biggest reason I bought this place two years ago. My own home and a view. But now, the mountains are blanketed by ominous darkness. Debris skips past the window, and something crashes across the street.

“Marty, I don’t like this at all.”

He decides music is in order and puts on the Moody Blues, which puts my son promptly back to sleep. Rock music puts him to sleep—go figure. I lie down with him in the bedroom. Now, hyper-vigilant, I keep watch: ears perked for every unusual sound. Something slams into the wall, shaking the entire bedroom. I scream, yet all I hear is roaring wind and tearing metal. Metal is tearing! I leap up and run my baby into his room and assess his safety. His room is in the center of our home. “Marty! Come!”

Crashing sounds reverberate. Is this what it is like in a tornado? Marty gulps his hot toddy and joins us. Even he looks concerned. The power gives up the ghost, and the music stops. My heart is beating in my head. Marty holds a lighter as I zip my sleeping little guy up in my parka and place him in the closet. I am wondering now if we will survive this night. Amazed that we must say it, Marty and I agree that if something happens, we will block baby from falling debris. Then at least maybe he will make it. That precious face looks so peaceful, all cushioned with wolf fur. We shut the closet door and lean against it. Waiting.

Metal from the roof flaps around in the raging wind. Frozen, we listen, fingers entwined, as wind spirit peels metal siding and skirting away like paper. Hunkered down by the closet door where baby sleeps, my body begins to shake violently. The roof opens in patches above us, allowing wind spirits to invade the house.

 It is early in the morning and calm. Daylight streams past hanging pieces of insulation from gaping holes above. Rubbing tired eyes, I lift myself from Marty’s arm and slide open the closet door. My son has slept through it all. We take stock. Siding and skirting are stripped away; the roof—torn off—has wiped out my neighbor’s fence. The car is, amazingly, intact. A trailer home across the way has been blown completely off its blocks. Another has its guts strewn about. It looks like a war zone. Later I learn that a house exploded on Hillside and about the leveling of a trailer park in Muldoon. I drive to school anyway, past twisted store signs, downed power lines, and piles of debris. We survived the windstorm of 1980. Anchorage went to work and picked up the pieces. And I got an A on my math test.

Diane L'xeis' Benson originates from Sitka, graduated from high school in Fairbanks, and moved to Anchorage in 1976. She settled with her family into Chugiak in 1988, where she continues to reside with her sled dog team. Benson is a professor of Alaskan Literature and Native Studies for the University of Alaska system. She is best known for her portrayal of Tlingit civil rights leader Elizabeth Peratrovich, both on stage and in the PBS documentary, For the Rights of All: Ending Jim Crow in Alaska. Benson is a poet and playwright with a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the University of Alaska. She performed her most recent work, including a deeply personal piece about a mother of a wounded soldier, Mother America Blue, in London, England. She is the proud mother of one son, one foster daughter, and two grandchildren.