The Weather Report

My son wants to know when the sun will rise before he does. It surprised me, too, how sluggish it is to arrive each morning. Atlanta waits in the western reaches of the eastern time zone, almost an hour behind our old neighbors in Brooklyn. Our clocks are in sync, but our bodies are not. Here in Atlanta, we are slower to wake, and with less of a rush to get things done, the sun allowing us extra time to wrap up before night settles in. We haven’t adjusted, my son and I. So we pull up the source of all knowledge and the drain of all time to find that the sun would not rise before the son for nearly a month. I try to brighten his mood, suggesting he see himself as Apollo’s sidekick, riding shotgun on the chariot and kicking it into gear. He takes a bite of his toast, sighs, and moans, “I miss New York.”

Last night, for several minutes, I drove through eighteen inches of snow and more falling. But then a turn from the usual route, in a bid for more time, lost the connection instead. Snow disappeared from earshot. This morning, with the memory of the supersized flakes still cooling my bones, I step out onto my porch. I notice a feeble chill in the air; and then sunshine, red earth, leaves tender as shoots on the maple, a solitary royal blue hyacinth awaiting its coronation. Springtime is in full riot and I am dreaming of snow. 

The rain in Spain stays, it turns out, not on the plains, mainly or otherwise. But in my daughter’s picture book last night, the rain soaked the Salisbury plain, which was as right as the rain itself. Perhaps that’s where Higgins got the idea for his catchy exercise. After all, in rainy places, one knows about rain. Think of the accessories alone: macs and wellies; umbrellas that speak of station. England and her language—united in their preoccupation with precipitation. And for all the many kinds of wettings, the tongue is sprinkled with specificity. We have deluges, downpours, drenchings, and drizzles. But with more tools comes a greater call for accuracy. Is today’s fall a drizzle or a shower? The moment at which the light rain fall stops being brief; the drop of rain that crosses from very fine to simply small: These are the rules our lingual forebears have set out for us. Live by the sword, die by the sword.

Found today at Pacific Street and Hoyt Streets. Three and a half feet tall, brown hair, black eyes. A chipped front tooth and a Ronnie Wood haircut. Unlikely gait. Once claimed, the boy showed little interest in the 60 degree weather, bright sunshine, or warm spring breezes. With singular interest, our man requested immediate delivery to his engineering class a few blocks away. Resiliency and punishment look frustratingly alike.

Postal Service “Sleeping In”

Photo credit: MMT

This morning, I awoke to see that the city had risen early to have a bath. Hours later, it was still luxuriating in its robe. Even the hardest to clean spots—behind its ears, and smack in the middle of its backside—shined with clean, the ivory snow unrinsed. Its dirtiest sins covered for a little longer.

The future of the earth aside, it’s lovely to be in a light jacket and thin pants in February. The mood is permissive, the weather providing excuse and inspiration for all things—Nirvana or Expensive Coffee. But my mind has sped forward to the middle of the night and the possibility of snow, that alchemy of skipped states. The singularity of each snowflake has nothing on how this fluff even came into being, how it can hold its fragile state, how it is made of ice but is not ice. The complexity of the universe and all its mystery, possibly falling tonight in crystalline form.

Photo credit: Steven Pisano

Richard Hendrickson, a Long Island farmer, recorded the weather every day for 85 years. He missed the work only once, in his forties, when Richard and his wife Dorothea won a trip to New Zealand as a reward for being a canned ham company’s billionth customer. The National Weather Service didn’t miss out, though: Richard ensured that a family member filled in. Weather was of professional interest and distraction, providing a drama sowing and reaping did not. He said of the weather work: “In nice days, it’s monotonous. But then you’d get the thunder and lightning... BAM!” Indeed. Once, in 1982, a spring storm was so furious, it required him to take measurements 10 times in 12 hours. When it cleared, he had lost Dorothea: “The storm was over, and she died as the sun set below the hills.” Ten recordings. 

Painting: “Brooklyn Bridge in Snow,” by Max Kuehne, via Irina

No real work will be done today, unless you count the constant clicking to refresh the forecast. When the F train plays hooky during the morning commute and at last arrives, stuffed beyond hope, no one seems to mind. Parkas file out onto the street in the vague direction of a cab or bus, without conviction. Phones are dragged from pockets in hopes of a message from the office: Don’t bother coming in. The morning rush is in full swing, and yet the streets sound as quiet as if the snow has already fallen. Minds are at home already, just waiting on their bodies.