Blessedly Boring
Yesterday's little weather icons on the NOAA page for Partridge, KS put a smile on my face. (Hiromi would probably say "You're easily amused.")
In perfect symmetry they marched across the top of the page toward Friday, every other one bright orange, with the word "hot" underneath, and the numerals 100 or 99 (the expected high for the day). In between the orange squares were black ones with a pale moon in the picture. Underneath it said "clear" and had either a 72, 73, or 74--the overnight low.
This "Harvest Halloween" bodes well for all those people still chomping at the bit to get all the wheat into the bins.
For me, the forecast prompts thankfulness for our whole-house air conditioner. This is the very first time in my life I have lived in such a house, and I love love love it. (I love, love, love easily too.) Hiromi and I have always had a window air conditioner, but I'm very happy to do without the blast of cold air in its vicinity, and the noise, and the network of fans strategically located throughout the house to get the cool air to our sleeping places, etc. Even then, some parts of the house were so hot that you avoided doing certain kinds of work if it had to be done in the "hot" room. Ironing, for example, which happened in the farthest away corner from the air conditioner. Or at least you ironed before your shower so you could still feel clean when you slipped into your freshly ironed garment.
Our electricity bill always spikes during air conditioning season, but less with this whole house unit than the window one, if the first electricity bill of the season is any indication. The spike was only half as high as last year's seasonal spike, when all we had was a window unit.
Bring on the hot weather. You'll find me out early and late, but not in the middle of the day, unless necessity forces me to be there.
Last night I ran a plate full of food to Grant, who was helping haul wheat to the elevator. On the way back I met schoolteacher Betty, who was driving a grain truck out west toward her dad's field. With her was a young person--her niece, I presumed, although I was concentrating mostly on navigating past her on the muddy road.
All sorts of vehicles and people come out of the woodwork during this season, to keep things humming along. Besides the grannys and chipper young teachers, driving the trucks are Moms and teenagers and grandpas and vacationing friends and family--people who grew up here, most likely, and have returned for the event, even people who just might have volunteered to help if they hadn't been asked.
And the trucks. The Terrill family's red cab, red bed truck with the neatly done lettering on the side is cruising back and forth past our place again, between the farm and the elevator. I've been seeing that truck for decades, probably only during harvest. I'm not sure who is driving it, but it's undoubtedly either the second or third generation descendant or relative of the person who originally purchased it.
I feel sorry for the people who never live in the same place long enough to learn the rhythms of the seasons in that place, or who are too unobservant or disconnected to notice. Both the rhythms of nature and the rhythms of community and family life are noteworthy, and help make life good. Like the weather in the forecast, those rhythms are blessedly boring.
In perfect symmetry they marched across the top of the page toward Friday, every other one bright orange, with the word "hot" underneath, and the numerals 100 or 99 (the expected high for the day). In between the orange squares were black ones with a pale moon in the picture. Underneath it said "clear" and had either a 72, 73, or 74--the overnight low.
This "Harvest Halloween" bodes well for all those people still chomping at the bit to get all the wheat into the bins.
For me, the forecast prompts thankfulness for our whole-house air conditioner. This is the very first time in my life I have lived in such a house, and I love love love it. (I love, love, love easily too.) Hiromi and I have always had a window air conditioner, but I'm very happy to do without the blast of cold air in its vicinity, and the noise, and the network of fans strategically located throughout the house to get the cool air to our sleeping places, etc. Even then, some parts of the house were so hot that you avoided doing certain kinds of work if it had to be done in the "hot" room. Ironing, for example, which happened in the farthest away corner from the air conditioner. Or at least you ironed before your shower so you could still feel clean when you slipped into your freshly ironed garment.
Our electricity bill always spikes during air conditioning season, but less with this whole house unit than the window one, if the first electricity bill of the season is any indication. The spike was only half as high as last year's seasonal spike, when all we had was a window unit.
Bring on the hot weather. You'll find me out early and late, but not in the middle of the day, unless necessity forces me to be there.
Last night I ran a plate full of food to Grant, who was helping haul wheat to the elevator. On the way back I met schoolteacher Betty, who was driving a grain truck out west toward her dad's field. With her was a young person--her niece, I presumed, although I was concentrating mostly on navigating past her on the muddy road.
All sorts of vehicles and people come out of the woodwork during this season, to keep things humming along. Besides the grannys and chipper young teachers, driving the trucks are Moms and teenagers and grandpas and vacationing friends and family--people who grew up here, most likely, and have returned for the event, even people who just might have volunteered to help if they hadn't been asked.
And the trucks. The Terrill family's red cab, red bed truck with the neatly done lettering on the side is cruising back and forth past our place again, between the farm and the elevator. I've been seeing that truck for decades, probably only during harvest. I'm not sure who is driving it, but it's undoubtedly either the second or third generation descendant or relative of the person who originally purchased it.
I feel sorry for the people who never live in the same place long enough to learn the rhythms of the seasons in that place, or who are too unobservant or disconnected to notice. Both the rhythms of nature and the rhythms of community and family life are noteworthy, and help make life good. Like the weather in the forecast, those rhythms are blessedly boring.
posted by Mrs. I at
3:54 AM
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