My near neighbor hasn't turned on his heat yet. I turned it on a few days ago and set the thermostat to a luxurious 62 degrees. I didn't do it for myself. I''m happy to wear woolen undergarments and an overcoat and stomp my feet and watch my breath merge with the steam off a teacup cradled between my chillblained fingers. I don't live alone though, so, bowing to the change in seasons, we have added blankets to the bed clothes and turned on the heat. N*Star must be happy to be reading this.
My near neighbor wonders if native New Englanders have a secret on how to deal with the seasonal misery with aplomb. Brother, it's just started and I am dreading the coming months. It's nothing yet. This is just a taste. I'm not from Massachusetts; I'm a cranky Nutmeg Yankee. That means I'm from Connecticut, a few miles closer to the tropics. What's our secret? We're not called cranky Yankees for nothing. Unlike those nice folks in Minnesota, winter doesn't bring out our best. Winter is the hammer and tongs that make us the way we are: sour, remote, bland, uncaring, resigned, hating to see anyone else having any fun. If you enjoy something, it must not be good for you. New Englanders love winter as much as they hate it. It wouldn't be New England if you could go outside and play year round. Our secret: hunker down and enjoy the misery.
As I type this, I see that the temperature in New Orleans is 89 degrees. The temperature here in Boston, this fine mid-October evening, is a seasonable 41 degrees. They say that in New Orleans people celebrate the sabbath like Bostonians spend the 4th of July. They celebrate October 15th the way Bostonians do July 15th too. Boston has a lot of attributes to recommend it. Dorchester is one of them. Climate is not.
Balaenius Rex!
Showing posts with label rain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rain. Show all posts
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Puddle glum
A big puddle formed at the intersection of Harvard Street and Norwell Street, right in front of the Mt. Horeb Lodge #10 in Dorchester, this afternoon. Blame it on the rains, not on Boston's Public Works Department. The lodge doesn't occupy the prettiest building on the block, but the competition isn't too cut throat to claim the title. It's a stalemate. Each of the windowless, peeling-paint buildings that occupy this particular intersection were obviously built for other purposes originally, and all four have obviously seen better days.
A pothole in front of the lodge building does, however, claim the title of the best puddle on Harvard Street. Just ask Angela and Nathan Jones. They live a little up Norwell Street on the second story of a non-descript three-decker. They noticed the puddle forming, the way it always does on rainy days, and they decided to float paper boats on it.
Angela has recently taken a class in origami at he biggest Dorchester branch of the Boston Public Library. She taught Nathan how to make paper boats as she had been mentored. Angela put a daffodil head on hers. Nathan put a miniature, plastic army man on his. "My boat is going to shoot yours, Angie," he said when he christened his boat on it's maiden voyage with sweaty palms and a runny nose.
The two paper boats didn't do much except get wet on this pit-a-pat, rainy day that didn't unleash enough wind to make the seas stormy. A Wise Potato Chip truck did the job. The truck nicked the puddle while making a tight turn off Norwell onto Harvard. Both boats were in the wrong harbor at the wrong time. The were reduced to pulp. Nathan fished into the bottom of the puddle and retrieved his gun-toting marine. "I win!" he exclaimed. Angela had nothing but crushed flower petals after the disaster had transpired. They went home to grilled cheese sandwiches and a shared can of baked beans at the kitchen table after they changed out of their wet clothes.
A pothole in front of the lodge building does, however, claim the title of the best puddle on Harvard Street. Just ask Angela and Nathan Jones. They live a little up Norwell Street on the second story of a non-descript three-decker. They noticed the puddle forming, the way it always does on rainy days, and they decided to float paper boats on it.
Angela has recently taken a class in origami at he biggest Dorchester branch of the Boston Public Library. She taught Nathan how to make paper boats as she had been mentored. Angela put a daffodil head on hers. Nathan put a miniature, plastic army man on his. "My boat is going to shoot yours, Angie," he said when he christened his boat on it's maiden voyage with sweaty palms and a runny nose.
The two paper boats didn't do much except get wet on this pit-a-pat, rainy day that didn't unleash enough wind to make the seas stormy. A Wise Potato Chip truck did the job. The truck nicked the puddle while making a tight turn off Norwell onto Harvard. Both boats were in the wrong harbor at the wrong time. The were reduced to pulp. Nathan fished into the bottom of the puddle and retrieved his gun-toting marine. "I win!" he exclaimed. Angela had nothing but crushed flower petals after the disaster had transpired. They went home to grilled cheese sandwiches and a shared can of baked beans at the kitchen table after they changed out of their wet clothes.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Bad Weather
With winter over, one would think I'd stop complaining about the weather. I was very happy when the heat wave hit a few weeks ago. It is a memory now. Though the temperatures are pleasant enough, I have a bone to pick with Mother Nature's gamemanship in Boston.
I ride a motorcycle to and from work now that winter is through. I enjoyed taking the T when the streets were slippery but, frankly, it takes to long and it isn't as exhilerating as weaving through traffic to get stuck at the next red light. Don't get me kvetching about school buses, which are a subject for another rant. I am told that school ends in a week or two, so it will be postponed until September.
During my lunch break for the past two weeks it has been pleasantly sunny. I take of my jacket, roll up my sleeves and stroll around Mission Hill. I stop in a park and soak up some sunshine, wishing I could spend the whole afternoon doing just that. I look forward to watching the clock tick closer to quitting time.
Every day for the past two weeks, the sky has been overcast by the time I leave work. Some days it rains just as I get a quarter mile from home, and it's not a long commute. Most days it's just about ten degrees cooler than at noon. Today, I looked out the office window and saw that thunderheads were rolling in. The bottom of the cloud cover was like soiled cotton heavy with moisture. When I left the office, the wind was peeling the leaves back from the trees. Oh happy day!
It hasn't rained yet, though I have witnessed lightening striking over Dorchester Bay. The wind has died down and it may not rain at all, though some thunder just rolled overhead. Even if it doesn't rain, I have the feeling I am being gypped. I am from Connecticut, a stone's throw away in global terms, so you would think I'd be used to this kind of weather. No. I am from New London, Conn., a city where the sun always shines and every frown is turned upside down. My Seasonal Affective Disorder may last all year.
I ride a motorcycle to and from work now that winter is through. I enjoyed taking the T when the streets were slippery but, frankly, it takes to long and it isn't as exhilerating as weaving through traffic to get stuck at the next red light. Don't get me kvetching about school buses, which are a subject for another rant. I am told that school ends in a week or two, so it will be postponed until September.
During my lunch break for the past two weeks it has been pleasantly sunny. I take of my jacket, roll up my sleeves and stroll around Mission Hill. I stop in a park and soak up some sunshine, wishing I could spend the whole afternoon doing just that. I look forward to watching the clock tick closer to quitting time.
Every day for the past two weeks, the sky has been overcast by the time I leave work. Some days it rains just as I get a quarter mile from home, and it's not a long commute. Most days it's just about ten degrees cooler than at noon. Today, I looked out the office window and saw that thunderheads were rolling in. The bottom of the cloud cover was like soiled cotton heavy with moisture. When I left the office, the wind was peeling the leaves back from the trees. Oh happy day!
It hasn't rained yet, though I have witnessed lightening striking over Dorchester Bay. The wind has died down and it may not rain at all, though some thunder just rolled overhead. Even if it doesn't rain, I have the feeling I am being gypped. I am from Connecticut, a stone's throw away in global terms, so you would think I'd be used to this kind of weather. No. I am from New London, Conn., a city where the sun always shines and every frown is turned upside down. My Seasonal Affective Disorder may last all year.
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