Blow me away.
For the last three days, the average wind speed hasn't dropped below 20 mph. Yesterday, it was gusting up to 45 mph, with sustained winds of 35. A significant increase in "Prowler" calls is evident-- with wind like that, houses creak and rock a little. The majority of the calls say that there's someone in the attics of these houses, because brick veneers go up to the soffits, and no further. The roofs themselves are just composite shingles tacked to thin decking, nailed to a 2X4 or perhaps a grid that's toe-nailed to the frame of the house. (In truth, the rafters and trusses found in most houses actually provide a superstructure that strengthens the house, and thus are part of the frame, itself.) When wind of this velocity its thin decking on a frame that way, it shifts it a bit. The result is a creak or thump upstairs. And when you're in a single-story house, that means that a cop is about to get sweaty.
See, the wind may be blowing, but the temperature is still running between 95 and 100 degrees Fahrenheit. And those attics are heating up, despite the wind outside them. And someone seems to have forgotten to install our ballistic vests with their integral cooling systems. And fibreglass dust and regular dust stick very, very well to sweat.
Garbage cans are in the street or across and down the street from their original locations on the curbs. The wind blows grit that gets into every crevice of your skin. Words are lost on the wind, making people ask each other to repeat themselves. On the radio, dispatchers are calling officers again and again, to no avail.
Inside, there's a nervous feel, even when the house isn't rocking-- there's a constant rush and roar, with the occasionally hiss of light things hitting the house, and thump of heavier things hitting the house, which sounds exactly like someone on the doorstep.
I know that, before this summer is through, I shall regret that I said this: I wish the wind would die down.