Wednesday, September 18, 2013

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One of the things that has changed for me in the move to Stillwater is the perception of weather.

In The City, there are sun and wind, rain and snow, but they are filtered through the urbanness of the place.  The sun shines brightly but seldom, and even then, it is experienced more reflected from the towers of concrete, steel, and glass than in direct beams; its virtue is largely expended, although the annoyances of glare and heat remain in full force.  The wind blows, almost always up Eighth Avenue, frequently carrying with it the fetor of rotting food moldering in trash cans not yet emptied, or else the sickening stink of purgings from both ends of the mammalian digestive tract.  The rain that falls carries with it the particulate matter released by the daily deeds of the denizens and visitors to New York City, their millions of exhalations and excretions and exhausts sent heavenward and knocked back down to earth by falling water; being caught in a shower feels much like being caught under a car that does not retain its fluids well.  And the snow, although it sits whitely for a time, is soon discolored by all manner of things, piled up by others always in the way of yet others, and it does not drain well when it melts.

Rarely, though, did I hear thunder echoing through the concrete canyons, even in the most violent storms.  The rain could fall such that I could not see ten feet in front of me, but the only sounds were of the rain itself and the noises of those who were forced to be out in it.  The retort of superheated air to the insult of lightning flashing through it seldom came to me while I was in The City, and, having grown up in the Texas Hill Country where such sounds are expected, I missed hearing the profound bass rumblings that said "storm" to me.

In several of the last few days in Stillwater, rain has fallen (and it has been welcome).  As it has found its way from cloud to ground, it has been heralded by the erratic strobing of lightning leaping across the heavens and to earth, and instead of trumpets to sing of its arrival, the rolling of kettle-drums has sounded among the meteorological cannonade to let me know that I have come to a land where the storms announce themselves in pride and majesty.

Their song has been a comfort to me.

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