reading this in the depths of winter, so it is chilly here in the Deep South of New Zealand. We've just had an incredible wind storm - clear skies - with our Ntive Beech trees like huge galleon sails, threatening all the time to capsize onto our house. Meanwhile our children in England have been sweltering!
Here are a couple of my favorite weather memories:
My wife and I got married alone on a beach in St Thomas. It was warm and not humid as it often can get later in the day. The wind off of the ocean was a little higher than a pleasant breeze, enough to make the officiant's robe flap around. The sound of the water and waves hitting the shore was soothing; after our vows, we took pictures standing amidst the rocks with the waves breaking, then standing in water in a sheltered area with the waves climbing up to our knees. I've always felt like the ocean speaks to me when I'm fortunate enough to visit, but I can still feel that particular wind today.
Standing out waiting for the bus in Idaho in the winter during high school. My best friend and I had matching down coats; they were just enough to keep the chill out in the high mountain desert as long as the wind wasn't blowing too hard. My legs would always be too cold, though, because I was too stubborn to wear long underwear. I'd always walk to the bus stop with my hair and teenaged attempt at a mustache & goatee wet: it would freeze while I stood there. My torso was warm, my legs were cold, and my head was frozen and I'd stand there playing with the icicles in my hair while discussing important matters like the latest episode of Star Trek or a new music video on MTV.
Jul 21, 2022·edited Jul 21, 2022Liked by Rhyd Wildermuth
Great reminder about the depth of talking about the weather. Thank you!
Here, it was a very warm, breezy, almost stormy afternoon in the southeastern Arizona desert. Electricity went out for about 20 minutes. Thunderstorms, still forming in the distance will be rolling in later tonight and our tent walls will be moving loudly in the wind. Fine sand will nestle on our heads during the night. The mixed scent of dust and rain is distinct. I kinda like it. Smells like inconvenience which reminds me of what true freedom smells like...
Talking about the weather also harkens back to a time when we all lived more out of doors, when the weather decided our lives. As a history undergraduate, I worked on a project that had me pouring through old diaries kept by Midwestern children in the 19th century. The first thing that every single entry in every single diary noted was the daily weather conditions. Working at a nature school in Florida now, I see how. We run our summer schedule accordingly: mornings are beautiful here and usually very sunny. On the beach, it is often breezy, as it was this morning. The waters near us have been unusually clear and green lately! It becomes sweltering by lunch so we retreat to the park where tall, twisting live oaks shade us. We run a sprinkler in the park to keep damp and cool. We have to leave by about 2 pm though because the afternoon thunderstorms arrive like clockwork this time of year. They look like doom and roll in like a pack of lions, tearing at the trees, stirring up the still, humid heat. They were wild to behold over the marsh where my parents old house sat. There on the screened porch, I’d watch the summer storms ravage the tall grasses, bending them every which way. But they pass by early evening, leaving us in a damp sunset haze. Stray clouds painted every color by the fading sun. Northerners will call Florida summers hell, but since childhood, I’ve always experienced them with romance and wonder.
When my mentor died and half of the Chicago theatre community was there to bury him, it was a perfect September day. The Cicadas were loud that day. He was so well loved that even on his death he couldn’t make his beloved community suffer anything less than glorious weather.
Today was a steamy 93 but unseasonably windy and although the gusts broke my gazebo, it lifted my spirits because the hammock under the grape vines rocked by itself with me in it.
Here in Yorkshire, we've just had the hottest days in recorded history and the moors were burning. Today is cooler and overcast, which is more usual; but there is a lingering indistinct threat in the air: perhaps it threatens rain, perhaps another turn to heat, maybe both in turns; but it doesn't quite feel like it's done with us yet.
Being British, you don't need to ask me to talk about the weather ;) - but you're right, it's such an embodied way of relating. I remember living by the sea, the way the wind would smell when it was blowing from different directions, carrying hot or cold weather, and how the water would turn bright opaque silver under dark storm clouds.
The recent hot weather broke over our valley with the lightest drizzle of rain - a blessing, gently soaking through the hard earth, nourishing the wilted plants and allaying our fear of flash flooding. So much relief!
Thank you for writing this essay. Here in Bordeaux, Gironde, the heat has become milder, thankfully. 32°C today, feels like a day in Anchorage during winter! Two nights ago the suffocating smoke from the gigantic fires 40km down south reached the city, what's happening down there is more than awful. Summer season has become more and more challenging in the area over the last ten years, sadly. Lughnasadh is coming soon and with it hopes of colder days, and a rainy miracle (almost no drops since the last days of June, and the city is very close to the Atlantic ocean).
I got drenched in a thunderstorm yesterday, the first of the summer. Coming down the limestone escarpment with black spruce, eastern white cedar and the small balsam fir showing their appreciation for the rocking wind, and less visibly, for their thirst quenched for a moment. The mosses at their feet swelling, collecting their dues from a bargain with the sky. The storm was gentle, the thunder never a shout, just a grumble. Yet this morning the heavy air and cool overcast still feel unsettled. Mnidoo Mnis, Lake Huron.
To add to this: I think that relating to each other about the weather is also a way to connect with people based on a shared material experience, in a marxian sense.
Where I live south of Fresno, California summer temperatures 38 C, 100 F and above are normal and can last weeks. Currently predicted to persist until at least the beginning of August. Some varieties of tomatoes can’t handle the heat and stop producing until the fall. Sunny, no clouds every day. 40 C, 104 F today. It’s been like this forever. The current local record of 115 F was set back in the 1930’s. Fresno’s record happened in the 1890’s. During summers the indigenous people before the 1800’s European influx would leave the valley for the nearby Sierras. To my astonishment Portland, Oregon and British Columbia far to the north of us had record temperatures higher than ours last summer. London recently with a high of 40 C 104 F. I believe we are cruising for a bruising as my dad would say. The needed change is coming the hard way as it usually does with addiction to bad patterns and ways of being. I do my walk in the cooler morning and then stay in the air conditioning set at 80 F with a fan on. My window in my second floor apartment looks out onto a shaded courtyard filled with trees, with birds and butterflies passing through.
My uncle’s memorial service was on Saturday and thunder rattled the chapel, and a massive water leak broke through the hall ceiling. Unforgettably tied to the memory of that moment.
Jul 21, 2022·edited Jul 21, 2022Liked by Rhyd Wildermuth
I just this morning put a name to it... Surreal. Our weather here in the southern Appalachians has been surreal. Hot as always in summer, though not unbearably hot for me. But, cloudy, nearly every day, clouds closing in on me, blocking the sky, as though perhaps there is really nothing else out there.
So beautiful and simple Rhyd! You are so right. Lets talk about the weather more. And so this morning we woke up at 6 by the rain. It was unbelievably refreshing after the heat wave we experienced in Norway (too!).
Your piece reminds me of something I find very beautiful. I heard the other day at a workshop that instead of asking someone «how do you do today?» or «how are you?» you could ask «what is your weather today?» that gives the space for a response in so many different nuances and images and symbols…
reading this in the depths of winter, so it is chilly here in the Deep South of New Zealand. We've just had an incredible wind storm - clear skies - with our Ntive Beech trees like huge galleon sails, threatening all the time to capsize onto our house. Meanwhile our children in England have been sweltering!
Here are a couple of my favorite weather memories:
My wife and I got married alone on a beach in St Thomas. It was warm and not humid as it often can get later in the day. The wind off of the ocean was a little higher than a pleasant breeze, enough to make the officiant's robe flap around. The sound of the water and waves hitting the shore was soothing; after our vows, we took pictures standing amidst the rocks with the waves breaking, then standing in water in a sheltered area with the waves climbing up to our knees. I've always felt like the ocean speaks to me when I'm fortunate enough to visit, but I can still feel that particular wind today.
Standing out waiting for the bus in Idaho in the winter during high school. My best friend and I had matching down coats; they were just enough to keep the chill out in the high mountain desert as long as the wind wasn't blowing too hard. My legs would always be too cold, though, because I was too stubborn to wear long underwear. I'd always walk to the bus stop with my hair and teenaged attempt at a mustache & goatee wet: it would freeze while I stood there. My torso was warm, my legs were cold, and my head was frozen and I'd stand there playing with the icicles in my hair while discussing important matters like the latest episode of Star Trek or a new music video on MTV.
Yes.
97217.
Random days of clear skies, longer weeks of overcast. But it's OREGON after all.
But, I have been here 30 years and its less clear overall. I do wish to add to assessments
but also to say, seems growing food under a translucent canopy would be prudent for now
Great reminder about the depth of talking about the weather. Thank you!
Here, it was a very warm, breezy, almost stormy afternoon in the southeastern Arizona desert. Electricity went out for about 20 minutes. Thunderstorms, still forming in the distance will be rolling in later tonight and our tent walls will be moving loudly in the wind. Fine sand will nestle on our heads during the night. The mixed scent of dust and rain is distinct. I kinda like it. Smells like inconvenience which reminds me of what true freedom smells like...
Talking about the weather also harkens back to a time when we all lived more out of doors, when the weather decided our lives. As a history undergraduate, I worked on a project that had me pouring through old diaries kept by Midwestern children in the 19th century. The first thing that every single entry in every single diary noted was the daily weather conditions. Working at a nature school in Florida now, I see how. We run our summer schedule accordingly: mornings are beautiful here and usually very sunny. On the beach, it is often breezy, as it was this morning. The waters near us have been unusually clear and green lately! It becomes sweltering by lunch so we retreat to the park where tall, twisting live oaks shade us. We run a sprinkler in the park to keep damp and cool. We have to leave by about 2 pm though because the afternoon thunderstorms arrive like clockwork this time of year. They look like doom and roll in like a pack of lions, tearing at the trees, stirring up the still, humid heat. They were wild to behold over the marsh where my parents old house sat. There on the screened porch, I’d watch the summer storms ravage the tall grasses, bending them every which way. But they pass by early evening, leaving us in a damp sunset haze. Stray clouds painted every color by the fading sun. Northerners will call Florida summers hell, but since childhood, I’ve always experienced them with romance and wonder.
When my mentor died and half of the Chicago theatre community was there to bury him, it was a perfect September day. The Cicadas were loud that day. He was so well loved that even on his death he couldn’t make his beloved community suffer anything less than glorious weather.
Today was a steamy 93 but unseasonably windy and although the gusts broke my gazebo, it lifted my spirits because the hammock under the grape vines rocked by itself with me in it.
Here in Yorkshire, we've just had the hottest days in recorded history and the moors were burning. Today is cooler and overcast, which is more usual; but there is a lingering indistinct threat in the air: perhaps it threatens rain, perhaps another turn to heat, maybe both in turns; but it doesn't quite feel like it's done with us yet.
Being British, you don't need to ask me to talk about the weather ;) - but you're right, it's such an embodied way of relating. I remember living by the sea, the way the wind would smell when it was blowing from different directions, carrying hot or cold weather, and how the water would turn bright opaque silver under dark storm clouds.
The recent hot weather broke over our valley with the lightest drizzle of rain - a blessing, gently soaking through the hard earth, nourishing the wilted plants and allaying our fear of flash flooding. So much relief!
Thank you for writing this essay. Here in Bordeaux, Gironde, the heat has become milder, thankfully. 32°C today, feels like a day in Anchorage during winter! Two nights ago the suffocating smoke from the gigantic fires 40km down south reached the city, what's happening down there is more than awful. Summer season has become more and more challenging in the area over the last ten years, sadly. Lughnasadh is coming soon and with it hopes of colder days, and a rainy miracle (almost no drops since the last days of June, and the city is very close to the Atlantic ocean).
I got drenched in a thunderstorm yesterday, the first of the summer. Coming down the limestone escarpment with black spruce, eastern white cedar and the small balsam fir showing their appreciation for the rocking wind, and less visibly, for their thirst quenched for a moment. The mosses at their feet swelling, collecting their dues from a bargain with the sky. The storm was gentle, the thunder never a shout, just a grumble. Yet this morning the heavy air and cool overcast still feel unsettled. Mnidoo Mnis, Lake Huron.
To add to this: I think that relating to each other about the weather is also a way to connect with people based on a shared material experience, in a marxian sense.
Where I live south of Fresno, California summer temperatures 38 C, 100 F and above are normal and can last weeks. Currently predicted to persist until at least the beginning of August. Some varieties of tomatoes can’t handle the heat and stop producing until the fall. Sunny, no clouds every day. 40 C, 104 F today. It’s been like this forever. The current local record of 115 F was set back in the 1930’s. Fresno’s record happened in the 1890’s. During summers the indigenous people before the 1800’s European influx would leave the valley for the nearby Sierras. To my astonishment Portland, Oregon and British Columbia far to the north of us had record temperatures higher than ours last summer. London recently with a high of 40 C 104 F. I believe we are cruising for a bruising as my dad would say. The needed change is coming the hard way as it usually does with addiction to bad patterns and ways of being. I do my walk in the cooler morning and then stay in the air conditioning set at 80 F with a fan on. My window in my second floor apartment looks out onto a shaded courtyard filled with trees, with birds and butterflies passing through.
My uncle’s memorial service was on Saturday and thunder rattled the chapel, and a massive water leak broke through the hall ceiling. Unforgettably tied to the memory of that moment.
I just this morning put a name to it... Surreal. Our weather here in the southern Appalachians has been surreal. Hot as always in summer, though not unbearably hot for me. But, cloudy, nearly every day, clouds closing in on me, blocking the sky, as though perhaps there is really nothing else out there.
So beautiful and simple Rhyd! You are so right. Lets talk about the weather more. And so this morning we woke up at 6 by the rain. It was unbelievably refreshing after the heat wave we experienced in Norway (too!).
Your piece reminds me of something I find very beautiful. I heard the other day at a workshop that instead of asking someone «how do you do today?» or «how are you?» you could ask «what is your weather today?» that gives the space for a response in so many different nuances and images and symbols…
So, whats your weather today dear Rhyd?
With love, Sage