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Historical February–March 2018 article. Dates, prices, services and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
I’ve lived in St. Louis for north of thirty years, and I’ve learned you can live an entire year in a single day.
I can wake up in the morning and smell the sweet fragrance of spring.
I take an allergy pill, and at lunch time I’ll be slathered in baby oil, catching some rays.
When the dinner bell rings, and the leaves are falling, I promise I’ll carve the pumpkin. By bedtime, I’m nestled in for a long winter’s nap, while visions of sugar plums dance in my head.
If St. Louis weather were counted in dog years, I’d be Old Man Winter’s grandfather. Everyone loves talking about weather.
We worry about weather. Complain about weather. Praise weather, and let weather control our lives. Weather’s a teenager: Sunny, stormy, unpredictable, and sometimes you’re scared to drive with it. Like overindulgent parents, we’ll say, “Did you hear? Someone just pushed the wrong Nuclear Button; but first, let me brag about my Weather.
I grew up in Milwaukee, a simple weather city. Winter was the only season, despite an occasional rumor of summer.
It wasn’t talked about much, because spring and autumn were cruel stepsisters, too mean and nasty to fit into flip flops.
My first summer in St. Louis, the bank clock read 103 degrees for what seemed an eternity.
I came to see it as Satan’s wristwatch.
I found a switch in my apartment that read “Cool”; I flicked it to ON and set it to 65. I’d come home from work and draw snow angels on my glass door. One day, I came home and Frosty had melted.
It was said the Electric Company had a heart two sizes too small. Since I had no money, they stuffed my cool air, and took it straight up the chimbley.
I met my wife in St. Louis.
When our relationship flared, we went to Milwaukee, in April, to meet my parents.
She had heard Milwaukee was a great lake town, and brought a bathing suit with her.
She came down for breakfast, as Papa, Mama and I were eating our porridge.
She said, “I think I’ll take a morning dip in the lake.” We all looked up, spit out our porridge and said, “Honey Bear, you’re crazy!” I reckon you get used to the weather you know.
My daughter just moved to Southern California.
I asked her, “What do you miss most about St. Louis?” She said, “I miss the weather.
I miss talking about it, complaining about it, and being surprised by it.
In Los Angeles, it’s the same thing every day.
I feel like a grown up.
Then she came home for Christmas, and the weather threw a temper tantrum of minus two.
She loves the visit but glad it won’t come home with her.
The guy at my grocery store thinks I look like the weatherman from one of the local TV stations.
We have a running joke; he always asks, “How’s the weather?” I always say, “Just open a window.” Listen to Bob Dylan, Nobel Laureate, howling, “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, February–March 2018.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times2018_02.pdf, printed page(s) 4; PDF page(s) 4.
