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A Walker in Galoshes

A Walker in Galoshes

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The rain gauge says we received more than two inches last night. And it’s still raining. There are more flash flood warnings, which we take seriously around here, honeycombed as we are with the rivulets and tributaries of Little Difficult Run.

I read today that unlike hurricanes and tornadoes, flash floods are as deadly now as they were years ago. The main reason: People drive into deep water.

What about walking into deep water? Less of a problem, obviously, since most of us aren’t strolling through a thunderstorm. But still, it’s time for caution. For changing the route. For umbrellas and ponchos and galoshes.

One of these days we’ll have summer. Until then, I’ll keep checking the rain gauge.

(Speaking of rain gauges, the bamboo makes a pretty good one.)

What To Do When It Rains

What To Do When It Rains

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Conked out to rain, woke up to rain. Rain on the weekend, on Monday, Tuesday, now Wednesday. Dodging the drops to take a walk. Today if there’s a break I’ll be outside again.

Meanwhile, morning arrives gray and soggy. It’s a good day to clean the basement, sort through old files. Only that’s not what I want to be doing on July 3!

Tomorrow will be better, they say. Until then, I pile the books beside me. Four from the library yesterday and another, electronic one I couldn’t find in hard copy. That’s the one I’m reading now.

I’m in war-worn Berlin, riding the U-bahn, hungry, cold and afraid. Is it raining? Is it dry? Who cares?

In the Soup

In the Soup

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A cool morning has given way to a hot, sticky afternoon. But until a few minutes ago I didn’t notice. I’ve been doing what I do, sitting with a laptop, sending emails, editing an article, drafting a letter.

When I felt warm enough to check the temperature a few minutes ago, I read that we’re “in the soup” —that would be the high-humidity soup.

But I took that a different way. I thought about frogs that don’t notice they’re being boiled alive because the water is comfortable in the beginning.

Maybe those frogs are an urban legend. But I feel like one of them today. I didn’t know I was in the soup until I’d been in it for hours.

Flash Flood

Flash Flood

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Flash flood warnings are up in the area. Little Difficult Run, which winds its way through the region, has been known to spill over its banks, sending streams of water across low-lying roads and driving us into convoluted detours to avoid its overspill.

Today I’m working at home, so the only puddles I’ll dodge will be the ones in the driveway on the way to get the newspaper.

But if so inclined I could slip on a jacket, grab an umbrella and tramp through the woods to see if the creek is behaving itself this morning. Maybe I’ll do that. Just to stay in fighting trim.


(A tributary of Little Difficult Run in an earlier, quieter mood.)

Forty-Two

Forty-Two

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It’s cold this morning, but not as cold as in my dream. It was 10 degrees there, and I was running around telling people that there would be a 70-degree temperature differential the next day — from 10 to 80!

You know the weather is crazy when you start having dreams like that.

It’s t-shirts one day and sweatshirts the next. Jeans in the morning, shorts at noon. The air conditioner, then the furnace.

Soon the needle will settle on summer and I’ll be longing for a forty-degree start to the day. I’ll just keep telling myself that!

The Aftermath

The Aftermath

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Two days of weather and it’s raining not just drops but petals.

Blossoms fall from the trees, cling to sidewalks, cars — and park benches, too.

A house I passed yesterday in the twilight caught my eye, its front lawn covered with vivid pink petals, from a Kwanzan cherry, I think. If I’d had time I would have stopped and snapped a picture.

Instead I remember this: an ordinary house, a tree branching green, a yard with pink snow.

Snowquester!

Snowquester!

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Snow-starved Washington is finally basking in a day off that is not due to sequester-related furlough.

The government, schools, offices — all closed. Students, teachers, bureaucrats — even lobbyists, I imagine — are staying home and letting the world spin on its own for a few hours.

As predicted, it’s a heavy, wet snow — not so much falling as plopping from the sky. Or maybe it”s plopping from the white-coated trees. Or maybe both.

Today’s photo looks much like yesterday’s. But it’s not from the vault. It’s real time.

Will It Stick?

Will It Stick?

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Here in the suburbs of D.C. we don’t just argue about federal policies, we also debate what to call our snow storms. Though the Weather Channel calls the snow that’s supposed to start tonight “Saturn,” the Washington Post‘s Capital Weather Gang has named it Snowquester. And it’s not giving up the fight.

Putting aside the more primary question — which is why, since “Snowmaggedon,” we feel we must name our snow storms? —this naming convention does reveal an interesting turf war.

Apparently, the Washington Post‘s Capital Weather Gang asked folks to send them storm names last Friday, and the winning response was “Snowquester.” It’s the perfect appellation for a March snowstorm in sequester-weary Washington. And much more apt than Saturn, people say.

Will the name Snowquester stick? More to the point, will the snow?

We will have to wait and see.

Little Jewels

Little Jewels

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We’re getting rain today, at least an inch they say. I’ll be downtown, as sheets of water pelt the alley, blur the view of First Street, dampen my lunchtime walk.

But out here in the suburbs, the rain will be seeping into dry soil, moistening gardens already growing, including the pesky wild onions, which have been sprouting earlier than usual.

If we’re lucky, the drops will glisten on pine boughs, hang out there longer than seems possible or probable. Little jewels — they’re hard to photograph. I’ll keep trying.

Flurries

Flurries

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We’ve had more than our usual share of flurries this winter. Snow without purpose, not driven, not sticking much, just dancing in the air.

One minute the day lightens, the next it grays, and then … it’s white out (though not whiteout).

This is snow-globe snow, decorative, ornamental, does not mean business. It could be lint from an errant dryer. Or ash from a meddlesome volcano. Or bits of fluff from a cottonwood tree.

But no, it is snow. It melts on the tongue. It coats my hair when I walk through it, which I did yesterday.

Flurries are difficult to photograph. They are ephemeral. It is part of their charm.