From yesterday’s ice storm to this morning’s fog. Air filled with the promise of robins. A warm breeze, a freshet, a stowaway on the south wind.
This morning, a brisk wind rattled the Christmas lights and banged them against the side of the house. Their rat-a-tat-tat was an errant percussion to the howling west wind. “Haven’t you heard?” they seemed to be saying, “it’s winter.”
Yeah, we’ve heard. It’s a little early, though, don’t you think? We’re not supposed to be this cold till January.
I liked yesterday’s upper 40s. A seasonable tang in the air, but still warm enough to bounce on the trampoline after dark.
In other words, I prefer winter lite. Just right for caroling, shopping and running holiday errands — but no single-digit wind chills, thank you very much!
The wind is unsettling and brave. It rattles pipes and the branches. It shakes leaves from the trees. It is used to having its way. You might even say it is a bully, but that would not be fair.
The wind today is like rain, blowing with such intensity that I want to brush it out of my hair and eyes. I come inside from picking up the newspaper surprised to be dry.
I tried to take a picture of the wind, of the leaves swirling in its wake. This is all I could manage.
Should I walk now or wait? Wait, I think. It is difficult to be calm when branches are bending and air swirls around you in gusts and eddies. Best to hunker down with a good book and a cup of tea.
Today we send our thoughts southward to Florida, which braces itself for Hurricane Matthew.
I’ve grown fond of the Sunshine State, have reveled in its west coast beaches and marveled at its subtropical clime. And now I feel downright protective as it faces a category 4 storm.
Florida seems a large part water anyway, with its swamps and lagoons. How can it withstand this without serious damage to its roads and homes and shores?
I’m sending sunny thoughts Florida’s way, in hopes that this passes quickly, that damage is minimal and the sun soon shines again.
Well, the jig is up. The summer jig, that is. It’s in the 50s as I write these words on the deck, swaddled in my warm winter robe, the fuzzy white one. No slippers, only my outside crocs. I could use a pair of fuzzy socks, too.
Copper, however, is in his element, prancing in the bars of sunlight that stripe the back yard at this time of day and year.
He responds just to the weather at hand, which, if it were the prelude to a hot summer day, would be just fine, no problem. But I know what he doesn’t: that this is just the beginning of the chill, that there will be rain and snow and early darkness.
Sometimes I long for an animal brain.
The afternoon was too warm for a walk, but I pressed on anyway. By the time I’d finished, thunder was rumbling in the distance.
The weather here follows its own tropical rhythm. Bright blue mornings and dark blue afternoons. It’s the perfect excuse for indolence.
There’s only so much you can do when it’s this hot. And there’s only so much you can do when rain is pounding the beach and wind is bending the palms.
And so, you do very little. Or try to.
It works pretty well most of the time.
(This lazy canal says it all.)
The technical definition of dew point is the temperature to which air must be cooled in order to reach saturation. My weather sources tell me that dew point is a more accurate measure of moisture in the air than relative humidity. A dew point of 60 is comfortable; a dew point of 70 is not.
But I like the sounds of the words, both alone and together. Dew. Point. Dew point.
And I like the images they connote: A summer lawn glistening with moisture. A summer evening filled with cricket and katydid song. A summer morning dash in my nightgown for the newspaper. It’s covered with moisture. I shake off the plastic bag before pulling out the paper to read.
Before I’m saturated with the day, I’m saturated with the dew. That’s my dew point.
Thunderstorms belong to the afternoon. The buildup of heat and humidity, the pressure and then the release.
This morning was an anomaly. Cracks of thunder before 6 a.m. Copper pawing at the door, wanting to get to his safe spot in the basement. Driving to the bus in a downpour and seeking high ground to park the car.
Here’s where local memory comes in handy. The lot I use now was once flooded, cars submerged. Unsuspecting commuters had done just what I did today, raced up and parked and caught the bus. But on that day storm drains were clogged and rain fell several inches an hour.
When I pulled in this morning I noticed another driver who’d done the same — bypassed the closer, lower spots. I guess he remembers, too.
An early walk through a perfect morning: just enough chill to make my skin prickle. Birds calling from the deep woods. Almost no cars.
With the rain gone the air is perfumed with honeysuckle and spirea. Fences groan with flowered bushes. Banisters and deck rails double as plant props.
The hanging plant I bought is still alive! The red roses are blooming!
It’s finally May!
The rain began before I woke up. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t think it would sing to me. A pitter-patter, yes. But not this other sound, this low ping. It’s as if someone is tuning a cello or plucking a piano string.
And it has a steady and distinct pitch, too. I hum it, walk over to the piano. Could it be an A? Always a good first try; a million tuning orchestras can’t be wrong.
But no, it’s not an A, or a C or an F. Better try some black keys. And there it is — a B flat — or at least my out-of-tune piano’s version of that pitch.
Were I of a more mechanical bent I would worry about what’s making this sound. I would check for leaks or breaks. But instead, I listen. I let the rain sing its song.
(Waiting for Sächsische Staatskapelle Dresden to arrive and tune in the large golden concert hall of Vienna’s Musikverein)