A brief poem about our local weather so far this year:
Rain, rain, go away!
Come again some other day!
No, not that day.
No, not that day too.
No, not that one either. Or that one. Or that one.
Stop, rain. Just stop.
OKAY, RAIN, KNOCK IT OFF.
…sigh. Blub. Gurgle. Blub.
Our recent “winter” in Indianapolis was in name and schedule only. The air was freezing as usual, but the precipitation gifted us with very few wintertime sights. Schoolkids saw their wishes for snow days denied with vehemence. The minimal snowfall was pitiful and provided enough raw materials to produce up to zero snowmen. Our city’s salt trucks didn’t run through their entire supply for once. Overall we saw more rain than flakes.
Spring brought more of the same. We expected no less. Wait, that’s a lie: we expected a lot less, because rains have kept coming and coming and coming and coming. Shown above is our Friday night TV experience, trying to warn the good people of the city that a hard rain was about to fall. Again. So in case we forgot how that works, as a public service they reminded us that sometimes fierce winds can knock our stuff around, indoors is better than outdoors, and lightning is painful. Because sometimes people need practical advice.
Meanwhile outside, the skies dimmed and readied for an encore onslaught.
After letting the dog outside one more time for good measure, for fun I fired up my phone’s extremely rarely used “video” function and recorded two minutes of thunder. It’s dull to watch but makes a soothing listening track. Maybe if I can loop it forty times, I can burn the soundtrack onto CD and sell copies at Target as a relaxation aid.
I was willing to run the video longer in case of keen lightning strikes or alien spaceships manifesting overhead and confessing to be the secret manipulators behind it all, but I cut it off when the downpour kicked in. I added this cowardly coda from behind the safety of our patio door before putting down the phone and finding something better to do.
As I’m typing this two days later, yet another storm has just finished drenching the landscape, a few hours after the completion of the 101st Indianapolis 500. Thankfully for race fans the clouds held off until Takuma Sato could take the checkered flag. Based on my past experience and calculations, I’d wager a good ten to twenty thousand drunkards and well-to-do retirees were probably at the unfortunate end of the exiting crowd and caught right in the middle of the deluge. Here’s hoping everyone made it to shelter safely and that at least a few sunburns were soothed.
And that’s just this holiday weekend. April felt much worse to us. Previously on Midlife Crisis Crossover:
If you live within several states of us, you’ll recall a couple weeks ago when the rains came pouring down and wouldn’t stop for days on end. The Not-So-Great Flood of Spring 2017 occupied local headlines and gave locals headaches for days without ceasing. Damages and calamities were reported in various corners. On the upside, my grass looks better than it has in years. Meanwhile around my aunt’s place, the creek at the bottom of her hill rose above the banks and flooded all around, loosening the grounds around their horses’ grazing field to the point that their fence collapsed. The horses, no fools they, stayed near home but headed to higher ground and waited patiently to be corralled and led to their stables nearer the hilltop. Once the waters receded, driftwood and human trash was left behind around the landscape. Along my walk I found a few fast-food cups (though the nearest such joint is at least ten miles away), a coverless pillow, and a jagged chunk of car door paneling.
Here’s that horse fence, dislodged feet away from where it used to stand:
And here’s where I found the car door, stuck on a rock in the middle of the creek that runs at the foot of my aunt’s hill. In the background, that’s a former sycamore likewise swatted around by a petulant Mother Nature.
After taking the photo, I walked across rocks to the other side, retrieved the door, and walked it up the hill to show my aunt my wacky finding, taking care to keep my hands away from the torn, jagged plastic. She wasn’t impressed with the filthy thing, which I left on the porch because it would’ve been rude to drag it inside the house. About fifteen minutes after we left for home, I remembered I’d left it there. Oops.
Meanwhile back home, we’ve had consequences milder but no less telling. That part where I complimented how green my lawn looks right now? After a month filled with a busy work schedule, several weekend activities, and too many times the grass was too waterlogged to run our electric mower…this was our backyard at the end of April before I got it under control for the time being:
That’s our Lucky, the brave explorer cutting a swath through the formidable jungle that is his favorite bathroom. The backyard is always healthier than our front yard in any given year, even in past droughts, but now it’s passed the point of excessive healthiness.
Those April showers brought May showers, and storms, and one or two tornado warnings, an ordinary part of spring in Indiana in themselves. Coupled with the nearly nonstop ruination of picnics, parties, and outdoor markets by killjoy gushing from above, not much of our weather has acted consistently “ordinary” lately. If June would bring a modest reprieve before the grass gets used to this, and before Lucky has to start worrying about defending his turf from swinging monkeys, that would be great. And when I get my hands on the fairy godmother who watched over whatever kid who said aloud, “I wish Indianapolis were more like London or Seattle!” why, I oughta…