Let's talk about the weather.
Do you remember having discussions about the weather when you were young? I certainly don't. My parents did, all the time. Now I'm not sure if this is more a function of aging, or if weather-related topics are a passion for some people more than others.
I’ve heard that in distant times the weather was thought to be an easy topic of conversation because it was not at all controversial, a subject you could discuss without fear of inciting rage or riots, acceptable even for delicate feminine sensibilities.
The British people are often accused of having an obsession with weather. Since I seem to have a newfound fascination with weather, I’m guessing some dormant Anglo gene has finally bubbled to the surface. Or maybe it’s nothing more than a deep longing to become a meteorologist.
I'll even admit to enjoying The Weather Channel. I love the maps and charts, and sometimes there’s nothing better than watching a weather reporter share a live story from the scene of Mother Nature’s latest upheaval.
Weather delights abound here in Colorado. I find myself awestruck by the swirling clouds above us, and marvel at the clash of weather events that cause a typical storm cloud to turn a sickly grayish-green color before unleashing a tornado. You might even relish a rare but delightful clap of thundersnow, or be amused by tiny pellets of graupel—a wintry mix of snowflakes that freeze into a softer, squishy version of hail. And winter trees painted a shade of antique white with hoarfrost are incredibly beautiful, magical, bordering on divine.
Yet for the past week what I find rattling around in my head, like so many leaves scattered by a strong March wind, is my own birthday weather tradition sparked by an old English proverb:
If March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb.
Edging closer to the end of our shortest month, I look forward wistfully to the forecast for my birthday. Will there be snow? Will it be a warm day? Will this year's birthday come in like a lion, or a lamb?
On Friday, the first day of March 1957, a terrible blizzard roared along the eastern seaboard. Uncle Ted, mom's older brother and a Merchant Marine, was in port and staying with our family. When mom went into labor, Uncle Ted called my father at work to report the news, then headed outside to begin shoveling. And shoveling. And shoveling.
Uncle Ted was panicked. Dad was taking too long getting home and the snow kept falling. He was scared to death, stranded during a blizzard with a woman about to give birth, terrified of being called upon to help with the delivery. What a sight: a tall, strapping, swaggering sailor working up a lather of sweat shoveling wet, heavy snow from the back staircase, down the narrow side walkway, all the way out to the street.
Dad finally arrived, pulled up to the curb and wouldn't you know it? He missed the sidewalk by a few feet. Uncle Ted was furious! Here he had worked frantically to make sure mom had a clear pathway to the car, and she ended up having to step in a snowdrift.
All was well. I was born in the hospital, as planned, and Uncle Ted stayed home to care for my brothers. The next day he visited a niece fresh from the heavens, the first time he had seen a newborn. It was then he confided to his sister that although everyone says men are the stronger sex, after seeing firsthand what a woman could bring into this world he no longer believed that to be true.
Most of my Colorado birthdays seem to have been temperate, seasonal days, with a healthy dose of nasty storms thrown into the mix. Yet sometimes when I recall the blizzard story, I project my thoughts forward and imagine the day I will leave this wonderful place I call home. A warm, sunny, beautiful, mild day it will be, because I am absolutely convinced that I will go...
...out like a lamb.
So each and every boy and girl
Should watch as March comes in;
We'll know the way the month might end
If we know the way it begins.
