Last week the weather turned cold.  By cold I mean the mercury dipped below freezing in the middle of the night a few times.  Last weekend was sunny but chilly, with whipping winds to make me grumble as I raked leaves.  Then it began to rain again, so I cursed under my breath as I walked to the bus in the morning.  I mean, there were only a bare few degrees between myself and the solidification of water, and I recalled with a shiver how the wind had treacherously brought tears to my eyes recently.

Today a business correspondent in Minnesota emailed that it’s now gotten chilly there; five degrees yesterday morning, but twenty-four today, so it’s warmed up.  That won’t stop me complaining.  I like rain, or else I wouldn’t live here.  I just don’t enjoy being cold, and cold rain makes me feel unsafe.

My step-grandfather actually researched weather patterns to find a retirement spot with very little wind.  He did not like blustery weather.  Unfortunately this research led him to choose the pit of Roseburg, Oregon, as the place to settle down.  I cannot believe that Roseburg is so famously becalmed that this unfortunate move couldn’t have been avoided, and hence I might never have become so familiar with that awful little place.  Not that this is the point — the point is that mapping one’s happiness to the weather is a pernicious habit.