A Walker in the Suburbs

It may not last long, so I’m writing quickly, but as I type these words it is snowing in Virginia, or at least my part of it. The flakes are big and wet, which gives us a lovely snow globe effect.

This isn’t a blizzard or even a complete coating. Ground cover peeks around the base of the witch hazel tree. (See real-time backyard photo above.) And yellow buses ply the street behind me. It won’t be a completely paralyzed weather day, which is just as well.

But given the paucity of snow around here, having white stuff on the ground this early in the season feels like a gift. And until it all melts away (unlikely, given the cold temps we have in store), I’m treating it as one.

(Two snow pictures in a row … but they’re very different!)

This time of year we’re all hoping for a visitor from the North Pole. I’m talking about Saint Nick, though, not the polar vortex. But, at least for now, the polar vortex is what we’re getting. It’s swooping down from Nunavut Canada, bound for the Midwest and Northeast United States. And it’s ready for action, prepared to break records.

My Capital Weather Gang site tells me that 80 million people in 35 states may have temperatures in the single digits over the weekend.

The last few days, this walker in the suburbs has piled on layers and pulled on hat and gloves. Temps have barely broken 40. Not bad for winter in some places, but not here, where we’ve gotten used to balmier climes.

At least I no longer live in Chicago, where snow has already fallen, making it even harder for days to warm. I have seasonal PTSD from living there for six years. I supply a photo from that era to prove my point. I think I spent an entire winter in a polar vortex … and it wasn’t pretty.

They sought shade and the soothing sound of moving water. It was barely raining when they fell asleep, lulled by the gurgle of the Guadalupe River. But hours later, the river would swell with torrential rainfall. It would spill its banks and claim the lowlands. It would take the lives of more than 100 campers and Hill Country residents. Days later 161 people are still missing. We are all praying for Texas.

Who hasn’t been riveted by the images coming out of Texas these last few days? The sodden t-shirts and stuffed animals that mark these historic floods as especially deadly to children. The walls of water. Cars and trucks floating in the flood.

We’ve entered a new era, a harsher and more deadly one. It’s not just Texans who need our prayers. It’s everyone threatened by floods and fires and dangerous heat — in other words, an awful lot of us.

(Placid water in Houston’s Hermann Park)

The heat wave has ended … or has it? The “real feel” temperature is 100 degrees today, though we will barely reach 90. It’s those old dew points, working their magic. Today’s is 70; it’s a number you can feel.

I was just out in the soup. What heft! What majesty! This air has presence. It’s an old Hollywood starlet, making an entrance; a heavyweight boxer, knocking out his opponent in the final round.

This air is weighty; it’s a force to be reckoned with. I’m reckoning with it now by writing this post inside, where the humidity is a pleasant 40 percent.

(A patch of shade promises some relief.)

Am I early enough? That’s the question I ask myself now. How early must I rise to walk and beat the heat?

When the low is 80 and the humidity is high, the truest answer is no answer. But the question remains. Yesterday I started before 6. Today a quarter past 7. Monday I was far too late, almost 9.

I tell myself it’s just summer heat. We’ve had it before and will have it again. I try to forget the heat warnings, to pace myself, drink water and stay inside during the heat of the day. I’ve done all of the this, but it’s not enough.

I need to rise even earlier, to take a siesta, to make the day conform to the weather, rather than the other way around. Either that, or I can wait for the heat to break. It will … eventually.

(A rice paddy in Bangladesh, a country that knows how to handle heat.)

Our rain saga continued yesterday with morning mist, intermittent showers, and, in late afternoon, sheets of rain that just begged to be photographed.

As I’ve mentioned before, though, rain is tricky to capture, at least with a phone camera. Or with any camera not wielded by an expert.

I did the best I could, and the sun helped, shining crazily through the drops. It was that kind of day.

An old friend has returned. I can feel his weight in the air, his hand on my shoulder. He frizzes my hair and thickens my step. His name is humidity, and he often shows up this time of year.

I thrive in his presence … up to a point. At the very least, I don’t disparage him as much as some folks do. To me, he’s the price we pay for the climate we have, which is, at least for me, a fine one. Plenty of sunshine, even in the winter. Long springs and falls. And summers, well, they’re not everyone’s cup of tea, but I don’t mind them much.

Today we’ll have temperatures in the mid-80s. The air is full of moisture, which matches the sodden soil. Thunderstorms may pop up in the afternoon. It’s my old friend humidity, doing his thing. Time to get to know him again.

(A rice paddy in Bangladesh.)

It’s not your imagination, said my favorite meteorologists, the Capital Weather Gang. It really has been a windy spring. This was a few weeks ago, but the windiness has continued. It was so windy yesterday that Dulles-bound jets were flying over the house seemingly every few minutes. And these weren’t high-in-the-sky aircraft. I could almost have waved to passengers, had they been peering out their windows.

Unsettling, to say the least. A steady drumbeat of engine noise, deceleration, on top of winds that lopped a branch off a tree in front of the house and downed a tree the next street over.

What to do? Learn about it. Dulles uses Runway 30 when there are strong winds from the northwest, and sometimes, from what I can gather, it uses only Runway 30. That must have been what was happening late yesterday afternoon and early evening. It sounded as if every inbound Dulles flight was skimming the top of our house.

Things are a little more quiet today, but the wind has picked up … and it’s early yet.

(My favorite place to encounter Dulles-bound jets: on the ground.)