Washington state is well known for what the British call “brighter, showery weather.” The Brits ought to know. Their coasts and rolling countryside are a constant parade of weather patterns. I believe the phrase is meant to convey (BBC Shipping Forecast, correct me):
this long, depressing period of overcast downpours will now be leavened by sunbreaks and rainbows fed by even more intermittent showers.
The weather these last few weeks has made plugging away at “40 Ways of Looking at Manhattan” much easier. (The banner on this post is the frontispiece photo from Timothy’s idiosyncratic take on the city.) I am not a true Washingtonian: I don’t like going out in the rain. There’s a Warren Zevon song along those lines that Tim was quite fond of… I’m not entirely clear why, except he disliked getting wet…
Anyway, what has the weather to do with me? After all, I — like most of my colleagues and half the rest of the nation — am confined to quarters, teleworking the live-long-day. I don’t have to go out in the rain unless I really truly want to.
Finding the sunshowers
That said, sometimes, I go out in the rain quite happily. Yesterday, for example, I would have braved a hurricane to go to the local DMV with a friend in need. Ray needed a car that ran, I wanted a car to donate to Northwest Public Radio. Mine ran, hers didn’t: presto! A swap, and we both get something of use. It made me very happy to hand over the keys. (And a shout-out of thanks to the gal at the counter. Despite the stinky disinfecting spray that bothered her every minute longer we stood at her desk, she kept looking for ways to reduce the fees we’d each have to pay.)
I cheerfully go stand on the back porch of the home where my mama lives, despite snow, rain or hail or … well, not gloom of night, she’d be asleep. Just to wave, and read the headlines of the newspaper I bring. I ask how she liked her lunch, and let her see I’m alive and well. I’m rather looking forward to the heat part of the Post Office motto after the drizzles down the back of my parka in March. And April. And May.
Tomorrow, however, my personal weather will be the essence of sunshowers, whatever the actual forecast delivers. Tomorrow, had the world turned properly, Timothy would have turned 70. There would have been a party with cake and presents (I would have ignored his grumbles on both counts). And cards from friends and family, some jeering at geezer-hood, some kind and loving. And I’d have made something wonderful for supper, and maybe there would even have been champagne.
Tomorrow, I will raise one glass in salute to my favorite photograph of him, with Dexter the Cat in San Diego. And then go sit by the window with the current cats, who will wonder what my sniffling is all about.
The happy part
But if my pals at Blurb, abetted by those steadfast couriers of the Post Office (#SavetheUSPS), are right, tomorrow night I will hold in my hand the first proof copies of “40 Ways of Looking at Manhattan.”
“Look!” I’ll say. “It’s the equivalent of a tribute album. Warren got one, dear, so you might as well have one, too.”
Love this, Laura! Big (virtual) hug to you.