The Weather Van and the Very Big Wind

Starring Alan Thistle

Alan Thistle promised his daughter Bea that he would finish the weather van before the village picnic, but his careful measuring and worrying keep slowing him down. When clouds roll in early and the picnic banner starts to flap, Alan faces his hardest choice: wait for one last perfect detail, or let his neighbors help him keep his word. After a failed first attempt costs him precious time, Alan discovers that asking for help is not the same as letting anyone down. The story ends on the picnic green, where the weather van spins freely and Bea threads the pale blue ribbon through its tail, just as she had hoped.

Alan Thistle tapped his pencil on the workbench three times. Tap, tap, tap. That was how he always started. On the bench sat the weather van, a running fox made of russet wood with a white-tipped tail and four copper compass arms. He pulled out his pocket watch, checked it, and tucked it back. The village picnic was tomorrow, and he had promised Bea it would be ready.

Bea pressed her nose against the workshop door. "Papa, will the fox spin by tomorrow?" she asked. "The picnic ribbon is ready. I saved it specially for the tail." She held up the pale blue ribbon with its frayed gold edges. Alan looked at the ribbon and then at the weather van's split tail, where the loop waited. "It will spin," he said. "I just need to measure once more."

Alan measured the spindle. Then he measured it again. He wrote the number in his notebook, crossed it out, and wrote it again in neater figures. He was so busy measuring that he did not notice the sky outside turning the color of a bruised plum. The workshop window began to rattle, and the pencils in his apron pocket clinked together like tiny bells.

Alan decided to carry the weather van to the green and fix the spindle there. He lifted it carefully, tucked it under his arm, and stepped outside. But a great gust grabbed the copper arms and spun them the wrong way. Crack. The smallest compass arm snapped off and skittered across the cobblestones. Alan crouched down and stared at the tiny broken piece lying against the grey stone. Now he had even more to fix, and the clouds were piling up fast.

Alan carried everything back inside. His hands moved quickly now, no tapping pencil, no double measurements. He soldered the tiny arm back on, but when he pressed it into place it sat crooked. He pressed again. Still crooked. He let out a long, slow breath through his nose and set the weather van down on the bench. Outside, the picnic banner snapped and flapped on its post, and he could hear Bea's boots on the path, getting louder.

Bea burst through the door. "Papa, everyone is waiting and the rain is coming!" She looked at the crooked arm and then at her father's face. "Can I hold it still while you fix it?" she asked. "Just hold it still. That is a very important job." Alan looked at her small, careful hands and the pencil smudge on her left cheek, the same smudge he always had. "Yes," he said quietly. "That would help me very much."

Bea pressed both palms flat against the body of the fox, steady as a stone. Alan soldered the copper arm one more time. His hands stopped shaking. The arm sat perfectly straight. He lifted the weather van to the rattling window, and all four arms spun in the gusting air, smooth and true. Bea let out a whoop. "It works, Papa! The fox is running!" Alan tucked his pencil behind his ear and reached for the pale blue ribbon.

They ran to the green together, just as the first fat raindrop plopped on Alan's nose. Neighbors cheered and held a canvas over the food while Alan drove the weather van into the soft earth at the top of the hill. Bea stood on her toes and threaded the pale blue ribbon through the loop in the fox's tail. The wind caught it, and the ribbon streamed out straight and bright. Bea tapped her father's arm twice. Tap, tap. Alan smiled.