It's Raining, Again
My daughter, ever up-to-date and informed, just messaged to ask me if there was a storm forecast for today. Since it was only being talked about ever since the last one came by early last Sunday, I replied, yes. She then answered, that's why the weather is like this today. Her powers of observation at least led her to look out the window and see the wind is ravaging the trees, and the rain is whipping everything.
They're too busy in the student apartment to keep up to date on much more than what they're interested in. Their television doesn't work well, my daughter's laptop has died and she only goes online on her phone, and they're studying, whenever they aren't getting together with friends some Thursday nights for improvised chatting and roaming the old town's bars. I keep telling her, war can break out and they'll find out when the bombs rain down.
While some ignorance of the world is necessary for sanity of mind, ignorance of the weather can be quite inconvenient. It's very seldom caught me unawares. I remember one June morning, years ago in Boston, I left the house wearing a thin blouse and shorts. A few hours later, the sea breeze brought inshore a nice, thick fog and a drop of at least twenty degrees Fahrenheit. Suffice it to say it was a chilly wait for the bus home at midday.
I've always been a weather buff, and love to peruse weather maps and forecasts. In this age of improved forecasting, web pages for the layman, and telephone apps, I know almost two weeks ahead how I should prepare my wardrobe, and if my umbrella should be at the ready. And, lately, it's been at the ready.
Some days, though, it's useless and I'm going to get wet anyway. This past Saturday and Sunday we had a storm. It had already battered the US northeast as Riley, crossed the Atlantic, and became Felix. There were wind gusts of close to a 100kph around here, and much higher on the coast and hills. My daughter was home that weekend and went out with friends to town. When she came back and I opened the door, the remains of the umbrella she had taken were in her hands, clear wet plastic stabbed with black metal sticks, looking like a lopsided, drunk spider. She was wet, herself. It was not a night for umbrellas.
Today is another day that is not for umbrellas. The gusts aren't as stiff as last Saturday, but they're to be respected. I've respected them and stayed home. There was probably something I had to do today, but when I remember it, I'll do it tomorrow. At least it shouldn't be as windy and the umbrella can make it back home in one piece. It's the vagaries of March weather, which tends to roar like a lion from one end to the other in this corner of the Atlantic. The only lambs here are in the stables.
They're too busy in the student apartment to keep up to date on much more than what they're interested in. Their television doesn't work well, my daughter's laptop has died and she only goes online on her phone, and they're studying, whenever they aren't getting together with friends some Thursday nights for improvised chatting and roaming the old town's bars. I keep telling her, war can break out and they'll find out when the bombs rain down.
While some ignorance of the world is necessary for sanity of mind, ignorance of the weather can be quite inconvenient. It's very seldom caught me unawares. I remember one June morning, years ago in Boston, I left the house wearing a thin blouse and shorts. A few hours later, the sea breeze brought inshore a nice, thick fog and a drop of at least twenty degrees Fahrenheit. Suffice it to say it was a chilly wait for the bus home at midday.
I've always been a weather buff, and love to peruse weather maps and forecasts. In this age of improved forecasting, web pages for the layman, and telephone apps, I know almost two weeks ahead how I should prepare my wardrobe, and if my umbrella should be at the ready. And, lately, it's been at the ready.
Some days, though, it's useless and I'm going to get wet anyway. This past Saturday and Sunday we had a storm. It had already battered the US northeast as Riley, crossed the Atlantic, and became Felix. There were wind gusts of close to a 100kph around here, and much higher on the coast and hills. My daughter was home that weekend and went out with friends to town. When she came back and I opened the door, the remains of the umbrella she had taken were in her hands, clear wet plastic stabbed with black metal sticks, looking like a lopsided, drunk spider. She was wet, herself. It was not a night for umbrellas.
Today is another day that is not for umbrellas. The gusts aren't as stiff as last Saturday, but they're to be respected. I've respected them and stayed home. There was probably something I had to do today, but when I remember it, I'll do it tomorrow. At least it shouldn't be as windy and the umbrella can make it back home in one piece. It's the vagaries of March weather, which tends to roar like a lion from one end to the other in this corner of the Atlantic. The only lambs here are in the stables.
Geneva was even more changeable than Boston. I remember getting on the bus with beautiful sun and in less than a block there was a torrential downpour that brought down trees.
ReplyDelete