Nothing Lasts Forever

Not even the rain

Yesterday at the grocery store, a clerk was energetically slathering his hands with sanitizer as I placed my items on the belt. “I wish she’d been wearing a mask,” he said. “She told me she had pnuemonia and a virus.” He shuddered, and I looked toward her retreating back wondering how long germs would linger. “Sorry you had to deal with that,” I said and tried not to touch anything she might have touched.

Perhaps finding me a sympathetic listener, he kept talking as he scanned my groceries. “I gotta tell you, I just moved here and I’m struggling. My wife and daughter are happy, but it’s killing me.”

I wasn’t sure what he was referencing—viruses, masks, the conservative politics that manifest in things like the guy who drives a truck with a lifesize carved wooden statue of 45/47 in the back? I just listened.

"It rains so much here!” he exclaimed. “I’m having trouble with it. I need my sunshine, man!”

Ah. This I can handle on a Thursday afternoon. “It was a very wet three months,” I said. “It’s not always like this. Summer will be amazing.”

”Really? Is that true?”

“Promise,” I said. “It almost doesn’t rain at all. It’s beautiful. You’ll love it.”

I didn’t want to tell him that first he’d have to get through January, Februrary, March, and maybe even most of April before that sunshine reliably arrived. Even then, there’s often fog when the heat inland pulls water from the ocean.

I moved here for the rain, as many of you already know. I love rain and gray days and sitting at my desk making things up as it rains outside. It’s been heaven to me.

But I have to admit the past three months have been very rainy. VERY raining. My kids where here, one each week over the holidays and we managed to get outside a total of one hour each week. Rain chased us back both times. The mayor posts rain totals every month in her weekly column, and the total for December was 12.86 inches, 32.63 for the three month period.

In Colorado, the annual rain total averages 15 inches. You can do the math.

I told the clerk that I was from Colorado, where the sun shines all the time, and he looked mournful. I admitted I moved to Oregon for the rain, but honestly, “even I was ready for a day of sunshine.”

It arrived on Monday morning, a dazzling start to the day with sun painting the dawn sky winter parfait colors, purple and pink and blue, and kept going with no wind and low ties and that bright yellow stuff streaming out of the sky. I had work to do—rather urgent work, honestly—my copy edits for The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth were due by the end of the day—but the minute we finished breakfast, all of us were outside, dogs, husband, me. I didn’t even listen to music, just absorbed the light, the scents, experienced the pleasure of moving my body so easily.

And, of course, all the poor tourists who’d been drowned for two weeks had gone home, leaving the beach largely to locals. I recognized almost everyone I saw, all of us waving and grinning, every dog running up to offer a stick or wet ears or just a wiggle.

Heaven.

And it’s been like that most of the week. Not quite that dazzling, but good. Today, the rain is back, but the forecast seems to think we’ll have more sunshine next week, a chance to absorb sunlight and fresh air before the storms move back in.

I told the clerk at the grocery store to get outside on the good days, and to remember that summer was coming. He gave me the most heartfelt hand to the chest. “You’ve saved me today. Thank you for telling me all that.”

Don’t tell anyone else, though. One thing I’ve discovered is that I love living in such a small village. It’s like a secret land.

What surprises does winter hold in your world? Has the weather been changing over recent years? (It used to snow so much in Colorado Springs when I was young!)