If you don’t like the weather, just wait a day. It’s been a wet spring, but we can certainly use the moisture.
I’m trying to use more clichés in my syntax lately. Not only are they a vital aspect of good writing, but they should help me fit in better with the counter, coffee drinkers at Granny’s. I often say, “Everyone complains about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.”
It’s a vastly underrated topic in this age of social media, Google and internet porn. Last week during our “Sports Nuts of the Round Table” radio show, I suggested we soon do an entire hour on the weather. It wasn’t received well, but great ideas are often viewed with skepticism. When Ben Franklin first approached the concept of electricity, they said, “That kite won’t fly.”
Well, the next time you charge your cell phone, remember if not for Ben, your expensive new phone would have lost its usefulness within a few days. It’s called “thinking outside the box,” and I guarantee I’m really out there.
It has been an unconventional spring though. … Just when you think summer is here, up pops a storm. It’s been raining cats and dogs and I recently stepped in a mud poodle. I’m joking of course, but a couple weeks ago while doing a wind-blown, roof repair for Glenn Nielson, this unpredictable – and I mean unpredictable like one of those Billings roundabouts – reared its ugly head.
As I’m surveying the damage with Glenn, I see this little kid about two rungs up my ladder asking Dad’s permission to join us. In a hurry, I prayed, “Please Dad, say no.”
But Glenn encourages his 7-year-old’s curiosity and inherited entrepreneurial spirit, so replied, “Okay Graham, but I have to go, so you listen to Doug.”
And listen he did – every time I answered one of his questions like, “Why are you doing that,” or “That was a bad word you said, wasn’t it?” I indulged the boy, and he was handy, bringing stray nails to me so I could quit what I was doing and thank him.
Suddenly, the benign raindrops falling on my head took on the sound of a troupe of cloggers. I made a beeline toward the ladder when a hailstone the size of a softball hit me square in the head. Panicked and staggered, I found Graham wisely hunkered underneath the higher roof overhang a foot above us.
A couple feet below him, I barely remember our sparkling conversation during God’s half-hour temper-tantrum – maybe because young Graham’s smelly stocking feet were inches from my face and I was wedged there.
The skies were angry that day, my friends. When the storm finally subsided, Graham and I gingerly approached the ladder, sidestepping hailstones the size of cantaloupes, thankful to be alive. We vowed to thereafter live each day as if it were our last.
Since then I’ve watched a lot of TV bowling while eating pork rinds, but I’ll tell you what: our farmers – the backbone of this great nation – can really use all this moisture. They’re working hard while most of us are hardly working.