I awoke the other morning to the sound of rain on the roof, a sustained but polite applause that ended at daybreak. As the curtains prepare to go up today we’re getting a standing ovation.
During March, the official NOAA weather station at the airport recorded measurable rainfall every day of the month.
People who hate to talk about The Weather are beginning to mumble, just a short step away from muttering.
No one has fallen off their bicycle and drowned—so far.
Nature’s spring business, meanwhile, continues unabated, although soggy flowers and blooming trees are disheartening. It’s enough to cause photographers to dig into their archives for sunnier days past, or order underwater housings for their cameras. Nikonos, anyone?
Yet, when compared to other parts of the country, we aren’t suffering—ours isn’t labeled extreme weather, worthy of national attention. (We might hit that jackpot if there’s any flooding later this month. Images of houses floating down rivers always make the news.) But I don’t doubt there are unseen victims of this
bad depressing weather, and I’ll understand if they move elsewhere.
I’ll share these meager thoughts later, when my internet service is restored. Somewhere in the mists, someone is trying to repair a glitch. I hope they brought an umbrella.