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Their Own Season

Their Own Season

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Late afternoons have become their own season here, as the day becomes too much for itself and collapses under the weight of its own humidity.

First there is the darkening sky. The cumulonimbus loom large and black.The wind whips up and makes eddying noises as it blows in open windows, lifting up the light curtains. Even these many years later, I remember the earliest storms, rushing out to pull clothes off the line.

The smell comes next. It’s ozone, I learn. A pungent odor shot from lightning and brought to earth by downdrafts. Then the thunder, crashing and booming.

And finally the rain itself, a relief on the hottest days, a nuisance on others. Great rolling sheets of it, sometimes more than an inch an hour. Rain that bloats streams and sends them spilling over their banks, that sends me scurrying home along alternate routes.

Because the storms arrive just as I make my trek westward, into the thick of it. And last night, back to a dark, warm house. No power for three hours. And the only sound: the loud hum of the neighbor’s generator, installed just weeks ago. How did they know?

Second-Hand Rain

Second-Hand Rain

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An early walk this morning into a moist and muggy landscape, breathing steam — or what felt like it.

There were puddles beside the road and the leaves were gleaming from last night’s dousing. We’ve been humid for days, but rain-fed humidity is different somehow, less oppressive, cleaner.

It wasn’t until the end of the stroll that I saw the second-hand rain. A brisk breeze was stirring the high branches of the oaks and sending down a spray of drops that caught the sun and shone there. It was last night’s precipitation recycled beautifully in the morning light. I walked through it as if through an illuminated mist.

It was a beautiful way to start the day. But now I’m dashing inside from moment to moment trying to dodge the second-hand rain … which is landing lightly on my computer keyboard as I try to write this post.

Home with Humidity

Home with Humidity

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These days the air is so moist it seems to hold itself up, a scaffolding of water droplets. The slow walks I take with Copper give us both time to take in the humidity, he to pull and tug his way through it, me to wander through it as if in a dream.

Humidity is no fun when you have to mow in it, or hoe in it. Or for that matter, when there’s no respite from it. But when you’re strolling through it leisurely it can be good company.

“Home is where the humidity is,” read the T-shirt of a friend I saw last night.

To which I say, you’re darn right it’s home. Humidity: bring it on.

Exceptional!

Exceptional!

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We’ve been dished out a couple of exceptional early June days with cool nights and mornings and bright, breezy afternoons.  It’s the kind of weather where you’re equally comfortable in long sleeves or short, blue jeans or capris.

It’s flexi-weather. Choose from a, b or c. Add d, e or f. Mix thoroughly and enjoy.

Which is what I’ve been doing. A short walk last evening took me only halfway round my usual course, but al fresco dining completed the night.

And this morning, I threw open the windows and let the air in.

We have so few days like this; I want to savor each one.

Rainy Tuesday

Rainy Tuesday

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The weekend weather was sunny and hot, perfect for Memorial Day. And the rain quite politely held off until this morning. I noticed the first faint drops on an early walk.

At first they seemed little more than moisture squeezed out of humid skies. But by the time I’d returned home and brewed a pot of tea the drops had turned into a deluge, and I drove to Metro with foggy windows on puddling roads.

It was a tropical rain that fell, sheets and sheets.  I think of the flowers I just planted by the mailbox. They’ll be getting a long drink of water. And the ferns that are still in winter-basement mode (which is to say, half dead) … they will love the way this day is starting out.

Even humans don’t seem to mind terribly much. We’re heading back to the office anyway. So let the raindrops fall …

On Earth Day

On Earth Day

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Over the weekend I learned that a tornado touched down in my neighborhood Friday night. It must have been just the barest glance of a tornado, because the damage was minimal. But an expert was called in and he explained that the direction in which the trees fell and the crack down the middle of one proves that the tornado which hit Reston Town Center also hit Folkstone. It was a good reminder that nature is always ready to rear up and remind us who’s boss.

Perhaps Earth Day is a good day to remember this fact. Earth Day, which I remember from my youth as green-tinged and vaguely hopeful but which has taken on a grimmer tone in these days of global warming and Extinction Rebellion.

I have a much more protective feeling about the Earth now than I ever used to. And while I’m adding to the carbon load with my work flights to foreign shores, the travel those flights made possible is opening my eyes to the work we have in front of us, to the need to protect this good old Earth, which grows more vulnerable and more precious every day.

Coatless

Coatless

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The first time each season always feels strange, like jumping off a high dive or setting off in a tube on a fast-moving river. There is a similar lack of control. The coat will not be there if the weather takes a nasty turn. There is no turning back.

Today I took a jacket from the house but left it in the car. It was that balmy this morning, with the promise of more warmth to come. The wrap would have been superfluous. It would have been wadded up in my tote bag before I even reached the office.

So off I went, with only a sweater between me and the elements. No jacket, no coat. It wasn’t until I reached Metro that I realized I’d also left my umbrella. So now I’m coatless — and umbrella-less, too. It must be spring.

Standing Water

Standing Water

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After the record-breaking rain totals of 2018, the D.C. area seems poised to break more records for 2019. Lately there’s been some form of precipitation every weekend and most weekdays. It rains and mists, snows and sleets.

And so, there’s a lot of water in the yard. It pools in the hollows, saturates the grass, clings to the leaves and sticks and other flotsam jiggled from the aging oaks by storms and downpours.

It makes the yard most unsightly. But if you look hard enough and long enough, you can see a blue sky reflected in the standing water.

I hope it is the harbinger of good things to come.

Conversational Snow

Conversational Snow

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It’s March 9 and the daffodils have pushed themselves at least two inches through ground. But the ground is now covered … not in mulch but in snow.

Welcome to what the Capital Weather Gang calls “conversational snow.” This is white stuff that we talk about but do not fear. Snow that clings to trees and grass but not roads.

This snow fell yesterday but lingers today. Conversational? Yes. But not hardly whispered. Just ask the witch hazel tree (foreground), with its yellow blossoms all coated and frozen. It would like to change the conversation, I think. And it will have its chance. Tomorrow, we could hit 70!

Brrrrr!

Brrrrr!

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It was 10 when I woke up this morning, 11 yesterday. A strong west wind has blown in these frigid temperatures and they have settled over the land. They bring with them a brittleness and breathiness that is most unwelcome.

It isn’t difficult to admire winter when a soft snow is falling. But when Arctic air is blowing in your face or down your neck, it’s significantly harder to see the positives.

The birds have tucked themselves away into bushes and brambles. They streak out to the feeder or the suet block then dodge right back in. They need warmth and, even more to the point, they need water.

But water is coming, I read in the forecast. Rising temperatures will take us out of the deep freeze, and rain (what else?!) will greet us on the other side.

It’s the kind of morning that sets my teeth chattering, but what can I do about it? It’s January. The bulbs and buds are sleeping. To everything, a season.