Dear Mother Nature
Dear Mother Nature,
I’ve tried to be patient; however a few million of us were wondering if there might be some end in sight to the yellow fairy dust you’ve been liberally applying to our lives. I know, I know, pollen is a part of the growing cycle, but I’m pretty sure that we’re not supposed to actually see the air we’re breathing. I don’t think sneezing is a competitive sport in any culture, but you have many of us well into the double digits before breakfast. And let’s be honest; unless you’re a daffodil, yellow is not the most becoming color on many of us.
I’d also like to talk with you about yesterday. It was a beautiful spring morning when I let the dog out. The azaleas were blooming in a riot of colors, the grass was green as a leprechaun’s socks, and wisteria blossoms hung like grapes from the trees. The perfection of spring in Summerville sometimes feels like waking up in Disney World, and I truly appreciate your efforts to make that happen.
I stepped out onto the back porch to glorious sunshine. The birds were squawking and carrying on, a sure sign that that the squirrels were raiding the sunflower seeds. In my bare feet, I ran to the feeder in shorts and a tee shirt, shouting and waving my arms. The dog went to the base of a tree and barked, but it was the wrong tree, and the squirrels just laughed. While our dog understands the concept of squirrels, the reality escapes him, so we sat on the porch in the warm sun to review the basic responsibilities of being a dog.
Although I’d like to have a long talk with you about squirrels, they are a subject for another day. I share yesterday’s short story with you, not because it is particularly interesting, but because I’d like for you to notice the emphasis placed on certain words, such as bare feet, glorious sunshine, and blooming azaleas, because these words will NOT appear in today’s short story.
Today, you pulled a good one, and I am certain that you just cracked yourself up when I came bopping down the stairs in a spring get-up of jeans, a light sweater, no socks and flats, for a quick jaunt to my brother-in-law’s house, less than 100 miles away. Much of the day was to be spent outside, and given yesterday’s warm weather I knew it would be hot in the sun.
“John called,” my husband said just before we walked out the door. “He said it’s snowing at his house.”
“Very funny,” I replied. Then I noticed his down jacket and gloves. A glance out the window confirmed the day to be gray, wet and freezing. Yesterday, it was 82°, and I was in shorts. Today, snow. Ha, ha. Good joke. You’re just hilarious.
Now I’m all about a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, and I know that in the Lowcountry, if you don’t like the weather, wait 5 minutes, and it will change. But come on, Mother Nature. A quick check of the forecast confirmed the weatherman to be nearly apoplectic about the sub-freezing temperatures expected for the next 3 days. His eye began twitching when he then predicted beach weather next week.
So on behalf of all of us heading home from the carwash, again, and sneezing while wearing one wool sock, one flip flop, a turtleneck and shorts to haul the plants in for the 10th time, do you think you might pick a season – any season, and stick with it for a month or so?
Give it some thought. I’m afraid the poor weatherman can’t take much more.
/Susan Frampton
