I was upstairs having lunch a little while ago when we got a shot of the “unsettled weather” the forecaster has predicted for Mondoville over the next few days. It took the form of one of the sudden downpours we tend to get in mid-to-late summer — heavy for a few minutes, and then abruptly stopping, as if regathering strength for the next time. When they happen in midsummer, they can hit blindingly hard, to where I’m hard pressed to see the mailbox.
This wasn’t one of those — it’s not that hot yet, although it’ll get close to 90. But it was impressive in its own way, and it reminded me of my early teens. After we moved to Kentucky, my maternal grandparents would come up from Nashville for visits, until my grandmother became too ill to travel. My grandfather was one of those people who was fascinated by weather forecasts — possibly the combination of his age and his early years in a farming community. In any case, he always enjoyed the weather report, whether it was on TV or radio.
One morning we were listening to the morning show on Cincinnati’s main AM station, and the weather reporter concluded, “Currently it’s 68 degrees with rain falling from the sky at the Cincinnati airport, and –”
My grandfather interrupted. “Where else is it going to fall from? That’s the stupidest damn thing I’ve ever heard.” It became a running joke in the family, and he’d ask about it even during weekly phone calls.
As I watched the rain over lunch, I called the Spawn in and told her the story, concluding it with “… and now you know something about your great-grandfather.”
She nodded, and said, “But Dad?”
“What if the weather guy knew something we don’t?”
This is what happens when there are writers in the family.