See that, motherscratchers? We live in a weathervane neighborhood – half the people on our block have them, and now I understand why. When the wind comes from the west – the ocean – it’s a cold, fishy blast that ensures your vegetables won’t grow. But when it comes from any other direction (like east, shown above), it means it’s from the desert, and we can finally start having SPRING again.
Yes, I know Southern California isn’t supposed to have “weather”. But at the beach, that’s all different – we get seasons just like anyone else, and winter sucks green donkey balls. These are the days when you are reminded of fantastic times ahead and behind.
It is days like today, when the afternoons begin to yawn out to lingering evenings, that remind me of those early spring trips in North Carolina. Quick jaunts to the beach, or a stunningly spontaneous trek to New Orleans, when sitting in the shade is chilly, but the sun is almost too hot. It begs a flannel tied around the waist, it begs a jack and coke, it begs a decision to blow off a plan and chart an alternate course for the evening.
It was on days like this when you’d wind up kissing someone in your class you didn’t know was so beautiful until just this instant. Solo walks became serendipitous meetings, get-togethers became parties, and parties became legendary. In grade school, kids’ hands stick to the desk with a little sweat, as they look outside to an afternoon pregnant with possibility… how can they expect us to do math, when the world just threw open its arms?
I live in a weathervane neighborhood, and I live as a weathervane man. I spin, occasionally pointing in ghastly directions, but today let’s all assume we’re blowing in from warm savannahs, and everything is in its place.