On this 15th day of March, I’m happy to report that my wife and I made it home from a nearly harrowing 45-minute drive from Hereford, Texas to our humble home in Amarillo.

Doesn’t this day signify the Ides of March, or some such thing? And didn’t Brutus stick a shiv into Julius Caesar on this day in 44 B.C.?

Whatever, the harrowing drive was interesting only in that we drove into the teeth of yet another vicious wind storm. Our cell phones were buzzing and beeping storm warning alerts to us; sustained winds of 35 mph, with gusts to 60 mph. So were the phones of our dear friends, with whom we had just spent a lovely evening of dinner and laughs in Hereford. One of our friends called us en route to make sure we were all right. “Yes, we’re OK,” I told her as I gripped the steering wheel tightly to avoid being blown off the highway. “Call me when you get home,” she instructed. “OK, I will.” And I did.

We’ve lived through many of these March-wind experiences during our 19-plus years of living on the High Plains of Texas.

I don’t recall precisely the last time, however, we’ve had two monstrous wind events so close together. We had another one just about six days ago. Now this one. Climate change … perhaps?

Beats me.

It’s all part of living in this region of the world, not unlike getting used to the incessant drizzle in my native Oregon or the stifling humidity and bugs in Beaumont, where we lived for nearly 11 years before moving to Amarillo.

Remind me, though, not to drive in this wind again. Ever.