xt7jh98zct60_50 https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7jh98zct60/data/mets.xml https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7jh98zct60/data/2015ms086.dao.xml Bevins, Martha 0.05 Cubic Feet 55 items archival material 2015ms086 English University of Kentucky The physical rights to the materials in this collection are held by the University of Kentucky Special Collections Research Center.  Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Martha Bevins letters to Tom McCarthy Radio broadcasting. Agriculture -- Kentucky. Birds Women air pilots. 1959 February 3 text 1959 February 3 2016 https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7jh98zct60/data/2015ms086/Box_ms_42/Folder_1/Item_50/1959_2_2_Bevins_Storm_shelter_for_wren_p1.pdf 1959 February 3 1959 1959 February 3 section false xt7jh98zct60_50 xt7jh98zct60 F_______________________________iiii
Morning View Kentucky
3 February 1959
Hello Mr. McCarthy,
The next time the 61d Farmer's almanac comes up with a "mild and
wild" weather forecast, as was the case on Wet Wednesday (21 Jan)
I am going to start digging a cyclone cellar. While most in the
Cincinnati area were Spattering soggily about wondering what to do
with unwanted water, the tree patch, perched on its narrow ridge
top, was undisturbed by water, but was in frequent danger of blowing
into the valley below.
By three o‘clock Wednesday morning, the wind had increased in velocity
until it rushed through the big trees with the roar of a mighty train
in a tunnel. I was not disturbed, having learned by experience that
so long as the wind maintains its deep, booming roar, it is doing no
damage. Only when the sound ascends the scale to a shrill, whining
hiss are the trees in danger. However, indulging in the tremendous
enjoyment I derive from watching weather in action, I arose and stood
idly about outside, exhilarated by the tumultuous darkness.
Later, when I returned indoors and reluctantly lit the kitchen light
because I coudln't very well build a cup of coffee in darkness, I was
suddenly startled to see a small bird fluttering desperately against
the glass of a side window. Due to the terrific wind, I could not open
that window, but I hastily lit the back floodlight and opened the
back door, with an idea of working my way around the corner and getting
the little bird. Before I could step outside, he swirled around the
corner like a blown leaf, recovered himself in the relatively calm
air behind the house, and unhesitatingly flew into the kitchen, where
he settled on the finial of a corner cupboard. I had assumed he was
the inevitable Carolina Wren, but discovered he was one of the dozen
Goldfinch who inhabit the pond-field. I had not recognized him at once
as he wore his dull winter garb instead of his shining golden feathers.
He remained atop the cupboard, interested in neither food nor water nor
in going outside, until late afternoon when the front had passed and
changing wind directions coupled With falling temperature to indicate
that the storm was over. Hardly had the wind shifted from south to west,
when he flew against the glass of the door, and, upon being let out,
darted away to the sheltered hollows of the pond-field.
‘he morning wore stormily along, until, around eleven, there was a
deceptive lull. Rain ceased pounding down, and the wind modified to
no more than 20 miles per hour. Ragged gaps permitted brief sunshine
through the low clouds which continued to sweep furiously northward.
I had been Wandering about, and Was fortunately standing near the back
of the house when, without warning, a terrific gust of wind exploded
into the tree patch from a southeasterly direction. I shouted to the

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big pup and dashed for the back door, but, as we reached it, the wind
was upon us and I dare not open open it. It would most certainly have
been Jerked from my grasp, even though the wind was striking the front
corner of the house.
I squushed the dog down against the bottom of the door and crouched
against him, my arms around him as far as they would go, and my cheek
on top of his head. Though we were huddled in the lee of the house, ad
and it was a straight gust of wind -- no hint of rotation in it --
the burble caused by the building scooped up muddy water and wet,
muddy leaves, and slammed them against the back of the house and
against us in a blinding flurry. "hen it was over, only the lower
part of the door, which had been protected by us, was free from mud.
To the west of the house, too far away to endanger it in falling,
stands a big, dead black oak, the huddle of stubby, broken branches
atop its tall trunk, inhabited by four young squirrels. My head was
turned in that direction during the gust, and I saw the whcle tree top
shatter and fall. ‘he wind noise Was so great that I heard nothing as
heavy pieces of trunk and branches struck the ground.
The wind was gone as quickly as it came, and I hurried to see if
the squirrels had been hurt, but, fortunately, they were not at home.
Only the large stub of a branch remains, angling upWard sharply from
high upon the trunk, and, though it is of no great diameter, all four
squirrels now persist in living in it. They must resemble a totem

‘ pole inside the branch when they go to sleep at night. ,
In some areas of the tree patch, sugar maples have grown beneath the
great oaks, and, not being forest—floor vegetation, have towered
frantically in search of light. Consequently, they are small clumps
of branches atop extremely attenuated trunks. I don’t worry about
them, as none are near the house or other buildings. I could see
that a large one had snapped off about twenty feet about the ground,
but did not go to examine it, having no desire to be caught amid the
brittle maples should another such gust arriVe.
In the early afternoon, lightning static on the radio indicated a
line of thunderstorms approaching from the west, one of them, at
least, already between me and the Madison, Indiana station. When I
went outside presently to watch for the storms, I could see nothing,
but found it astonishingly warm, and both thermometers read 80 degrees.
I have heard weather men speak with awe of the explosive forces
released when exceedingly warm, wet air is suddenly forced upward
by under—riding cold air, and knew the storms would be of unusual
violence for this area.
Nor was I disappointed. Never have I seen such a downpour of rain in
the tree patch, and I think the wind would have attained its shrill
warning hiss if it had not been so laden with water. The drumming
rain obscured all other sounds, and it streamed so heavily down most
of the Windows that I could see little. Lightning flashed repeatedly,
some of it quite close, but the bolts showed only as a diffused glow
through the rain, and the thunder was more sensed that heard.

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The storm was of no great duration, and almost immedtztely after
it had passed, the wind became westerly and the temperature fell to
about 50. Both the goldfinch and I knew then, that the violence
was over and it Was safe to go outside.

Sheets of Water poured down tree patch slopes where there has never
been so much as a trickle before, some rushing with such force that
little branches and masses of fallen leaves rode an tumbled heaps
atop the miniature floods. ri’he pond had risen several more feet and
was muddy to an astonishing and uninviting degree. Two more sugar
maples lay shattered near the jagged remnants of their trunks, and
countless dead branches, both large and small, lay scattered beneath
the oaks, which had escaped real damage.
While it was an intensely interesting day, it was also an enervating
one, and I would be most grateful if the weathermen would, in the
future, please direct such weather elsewhere.
Best wishes to all, ~

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