Maybe it was the case everywhere, but in western Kansas where I grew up weather was by a long shot the chief topic on conversation. In a place where the crown of your head might be the tallest thing in miles, the dichotomy was stark; man vs. weather. Weather was the more expressive, to say the least, making up in intensity what it lacked in wit. Hail the size of baseballs. Dust clouds turning noon into twilight. Howling blizzards. Tornado warnings on the radio, you sat in the basement hearing the wind rip at the shingles, the smatter of hail: “There go the irises” was a yearly refrain.
This morning there is a clatter on my roof of drops shaken from the leaves by the wind. This has been the windiest year in memory. The fog is so thick it’s a drizzle. My neighbor David says, I don’t remember this ever happening in July. I suspect it has, but drizzle is not something anyone could be expected to remember. Forgetfulness is drizzle.
Back in Kansas every day it’s over 100. When I start to whine about the fog I tell myself, it beats 105. And I mean it, every word of it, but still, the grayness puts a sock on the mood of the whole damp town.