Rural or urban, young or old, weather unites us all. Perfect strangers bond over complaining about bad weather or celebrating clear skies. And if one stranger has a terrible weather story, odds are, the other will try to top it. “You think that’s bad? One time it snowed goats here in August!” And so on. I’ve added a number of those tall weather tales to my arsenal in 2020.
It has been my experience that weather is either too hot, too cold, too dry, or too wet. One thing about reaching a seasoned age, I’ve gotten to experience all kinds of weather. When the topic of the weather comes up with people my age, our conversations begin “Remember the summer of/the winter of…”
In east central this year, we’ve had an unusual amount of rain. At the start of the rain, I was quick to remind anyone complaining that “You can’t have too much rain. Remember the terrible drought of 2002 when it was so dry that birds built their nests out of barbed wire?”
But then the weather had to go and prove me wrong. In fact, it has rained so much this year that the other day Noah called me from his Ark and said, “I’ll pick you up in ten minutes!”
Recently, after a particularly drenching rainstorm, as my husband (the foreman) and I were sitting on the roof of our house watching the neighbours boat by, I inquired: “When does the rain stop being good for the crops, the hay, and the garden?”
Then there’s the storms. I don’t like those extreme weather warnings. I get nothing done. I spend the entire day with one foot on the basement stairs holding my emergency bag packed full of chocolate, just waiting for disaster to strike.
Lightning doesn’t bother the foreman. While he goes about his business unconcerned, I make sacred promises to Saint Jolt. I promise fervently that if lightning doesn’t strike me this time, I’ll quit sweeping crumbs into the corner and learn to patch without glue.
I don’t leave all my safety up to the Saints, however. I observe all the rules about what to do during a lightning storm. I don’t go near the chimney, plumbing, stove, fridge, windows or doors. That leaves under the bed.
Recently, during a vicious lightning storm, I crawled under the bed. As I laid there on the hard floor in the dark, the rumbling overhead intensified. I held my breath. The rumbling got louder, then it sounded…familiar? It was then that it dawned on me — the rumbling was coming from on the bed. It was the foreman snoring. He rolled over, shifting his weight above me and my hair got caught in the springs. After half an hour of trying to untangle my hair, I gave up and left three patches of grey.
Lately, I’ve begun to question the wisdom of seeking shelter under the bed. During the last bad storm when I crawled under the bed, I met a banana peel and slid through 54 inches of dust balls. Then three extra sets of eyes glowed at me in the dark. Two sets of eyes snuggled up on either side of me, purring. The third, I couldn’t account for. Then I realized they belonged to the kid we couldn’t find when the last batch of company left. He says he doesn’t like storms either.
Don’t worry, I told him. “It’s Alberta. Just wait five minutes and it will change!”
