My whining about perfect weather three days ago led to, no surprise, three days of gray, chilly, windy and today rainy skies – the worst weather we’ve had here in Maine all summer. Nice. “What a freakin’ day,” my wife offers from under the blanket and comforter. But the show must go on, so I was out there on the beach with a Baggie protecting the Nikon at 5:57 a.m. to take The Shot. I had forgotten to put the recharged battery in the camera, so I went with Plan B, the iPhone.
For my amends, I’ll now turn the iPad over to Mother Nature:
I am not content, kid. I don’t care how many followers you have on Twitter. I am not interested in your comfort, your mood, your worries, or your plans. Nor should you be. It’s all weather, my wordy little friend. It comes and goes, and soon you are 60. What a relief, eh? All that huffing and puffing about your life – for what? Look outside in the morning and decide what to wear – sunscreen? galoshes? – or stay indoors and wait. I remember you in the next cottage the summer you turned 4. Sunny little kid who put on your shades before peddling off on your new trike, like you were Elvis starring in “Viva Ocean Park.” Cute kid, surrounded by love and opportunity. This was the Fifties, some of my best work, including several terrific hurricanes, which they finally started naming the year you were born. Today I’ve got ordinary rain pelting your windows, and there’s no kindling for the fireplace. The old Volvo is making a weird clanging noise underneath. Why are you smiling? You still love your little life, don’t you? Of course you do. That’s all I ask. And be careful what you blog about…
Roger that.
Send to Kindle