The day I was born, all the windows blew off our house.

That's what my mother always told me, anyway.
They'd just bought the farm on the Cape Vincent road outside of Clayton, NY, and moved in maybe a month before, after spending some time on Wellesley Island in the St. Lawrence River, roughing it with 4 kids in the converted radio shack on the little plot of land that would later become Camp Bouchard. My mother went to the hospital and had me at 1 p.m. on a Sunday, and there was a sever wind storm that blew the windows off the house. Luckily she contracted jaundice in the hospital and we didn't go home right away, and I guess the windows got fixed by the time we did. I don't recall, of course, since I was only a week or two at the time.
I don't know the significance of this, but maybe there is some...