Storm Dodger
Storm chasers are bold (some would say foolish) folks who race to observe a hurricane or tornado. I’ve become just the opposite, a storm dodger. Afternoon showers are such a common occurrence here that I plan my days around them.
I walk the beach in the morning. At 3 p.m. I’m scanning the sky. Are those dark clouds forming in the west? How quickly are they moving? When do I leave the beach and head for shelter?
There’s an art to this. Depart too soon and I’ll miss out on precious time in the sun and surf. Leave too late and I’ll be drenched.
In fact, I’m writing this post while waiting for some storm clouds to pass so I can take a dip in the pool. Another day in the life of a storm dodger.
Summer and Smoke
For me and for many, summer is a recharging season. A lot of the recharging occurs outdoors. Whether it’s walking the trails, writing on the deck, or dining al fresco, summertime is outside time.
But not this summer. This summer I check my phone first. This morning the air quality index is 153, Code Red. So I’ll write from my office and exercise in the basement. There are plenty of indoor projects — cleaning up decades worth of clutter, for starters.
I won’t be idle. But I won’t be happy.
And yet … it’s the way many of the world’s people live everyday, without the privilege of working at (and inside) the home. Missing summer is the least of their concerns. I’ll keep them in mind today.
(Summer in the city, where there was no smoke last week. A tip of the hat to Tennessee Williams for the post title.)
First Storm
Yesterday I was writing outside on the deck, as I often do these days, when I realized how dark it had become, darker than twilight.
I wanted to stay outside while the storm was brewing, but began preliminary shutdown so I could run in at the first drops, a caution imposed on me by the (ahem) delicate nature of the electronics in my care. I covered the wooden rocking chair, tucked away the seat cushions, and moved books and phone inside.
Not long afterward, the wind picked up in earnest and I skedaddled completely inside, up to my second-floor office where I snapped this shot.
Oh, what a storm it was! Rain blowing down the street, like so many curtains swishing. Fat drops pelting the garden, which needs moisture so desperately. Even some hail thrown in for good measure.
It was my first big storm of the season … and it did not disappoint.
Dry Zone
In the woods, the little bridges are still there, but the streams they cross are running dry.
In the meadows, the earth is bare, cracked, hard-packed. My shoes scuff up dust. Even the grass has stopped growing as quickly as it usually does in June.
From the looks of the sky today, though, I think we’re in for some relief. I’m imagining great sheets of rain, the ground soaking it up, the small runs flowing again. And later, how easily the weeds will give way. I’ll pull them up by the fistful.
As the Smoke Clears
As the smoke clears, there are shadows once again, and colors, not just a haze of gray.
As the smoke clears, the outdoors comes into its own, a place to walk and talk and read, not scenery on the other side of glass.
As the smoke clears, children walk to the school bus. Later they’ll gather by the basketball goal and rope swing to play.
There will be dinners al fresco, dogs barking, the neighbor yelling at his sports team through an open window— small wonders made possible by a shift in the wind, a passing shower.
Smoke and Booms
Did you hear the boom, was the question on everyone’s lips yesterday. It was a sonic boom caused by the scrambling of fighter jets to pursue a private plane that had wandered off course and into restricted airspace. I watched videos of people enjoying a quiet Saturday afternoon, gardening, doing chores — when they suddenly looked up and around, ran outside if they were in and inside if they were out.
It’s been decades since I heard the sound, and I didn’t recognize it at first. But when I read yesterday’s newspaper (old school, I know), it all became clear.
What hasn’t become clear are our skies, filled as they are now with smoke from Canadian wildfires.
We may think we’re living our own little disconnected lives, but the smoke and the booms are reminders that, in many ways, we are one.
Feeling the Pull
Writing and weather has kept me mostly inside for the better part of two weeks, and I’m feeling the loss of woods and sky and birdsong.
Late yesterday’s walk was a reminder of just how much. The bamboo forest. The creekside trail. Everything green and glowing from the rain and chill. A new tree down to clamber over.
It was a pleasure to tromp through it all. And this morning, as I watch bluejays dart and a fox scamper home, as sunlight pools in the shady yard, I feel the pull of the outdoors again.
(No, this was not taken in the Virginia woods. It’s an Irish robin posing on the isle of Inishmore.)
Maybe May
It’s May Day, the first day of a glorious month, not a holiday in this country but in many others. I used to tell my daughters, if you’re looking for a lovely time of year to be married, the beginning of May is that time. They were married in April, September and December. So much for motherly advice.
But what’s interesting about time and weather patterns is that I wouldn’t say this today. A decade or so ago, early May was a reliably beautiful time of year, prime azalea season, iris yet to pop, plenty of color amidst the green. These days it’s unsettled. We might have such a May 1, but more than likely we won’t. This year’s unseasonably warm winter means it’s looking decidedly summery, though it’s quite chilly, an odd combination, to say the least.
We talk a lot about climate change with its serious implications for life on this planet. But shifts in longtime patterns of growth and maturity, planting and harvesting, affect us more subtly too. They prey on our spirits and mess with our minds.
(An azalea in its prime … on April 14, 2023.)
First Storm
It’s pouring as I write this post, and there’s lightning, too. The first thunderstorm of the season. It’s rained so little this spring that I’ve almost forgotten the thrill of it,
I think about the thunderstorms of my youth, wind whistling through open windows, the rush to close the ones the rain was pouring through. The delicious feel in the air afterwards. There’s chemistry involved, I later learned, something about negative ions and positive mood.
What a cozy way to spend a Sunday morning, nothing expected except figuring out how to get the newspaper, which is outside … somehow … into the house.
(Rain is hard to photograph; this is one time I almost captured it. New York City, July 2021.)
