It’s hard to ignore the meteorologists’ long-faced reports on the weather state of the union: floods gobbling up Mississippi riverbanks while the parched throat of Texas gasps for a sip of rain. It’s hard to avoid grumbling about the daily spread of weather that unfurls at my front door: hazy, hot, and humid in early May followed by wet, clingy, and cool in late May. Floods and droughts. Hot is bad, but cool is bad too.
It’s kind of easy to complain about weather, regardless of the ironic self-contradiction.
Never mind that I spent the winter driven deep into the shell of my home like a hermit crab confronted with an ice cube discarded on the beach. Never mind that I longed for days of slides, neighborhood walks, and lemonade. Nevermind that my soul expands with a cat’s stretch at the first fumes of forsythia.
It’s kind of easy to complain about weather.
Especially when you live in Pittsburgh and the 10-day weather report has, for the past two 10-day periods, served up rain, drizzle, dribble, shower, storm, and drip.
Then you run into someone with grace enough to embrace the weather in any form:
Suddenly, a season’s change is a welcome pause.