The Weather Thirteen

Smog, hail, storms, wind, and more . . . below the cut. By the way: the photographer says the above photo is true color. I can believe it.

1. Bliss, as far back as I can remember, requires hot sand beneath my back, the sun burning yellow through my shut eyes, a salt breeze stirring up just enough air to make tolerable an otherwise unreasonably hot summer day, hints of smoke from hibachis grilling hot dogs and burgers, the muted din of children’s gleeful shrieks, transistor radios, the occasional cheer from a nearby volleyball match, and behind it all, the roar of the surf, pulsatile, the heartbeat of the world.

2. Snow conjures pleasant memories for my parents, both native Bostonians. I’ve driven in the stuff and it terrifies me. But as a kid, we would take the two-hour drive to Holiday Hill in the San Bernardino Mountains so that my brother and I could sled downhill on squares of cardboard. Freezing, slushy socks, and an ass cold as Greenland tempered the near-death thrill. I used to take my son up to Mt. Ashland so that he could share that thrill. Ultimately, the wet and the cold overshadowed his joy, and he stopped asking to go each winter. Since driving the icy road to Mt. Ashland made me chew my lip to shreds, I never complained.

3. Driving 10 East on our aperiodic Voyages of the Damned, the family car would climb out of the LA basin somewhere around — what was it called? Kellog Hill? I would turn around in my seat (no child’s seat back in the 60s, nor any seat belts) and look westward, at the dirty yellow-brown blanket we called home.

4. The tornado outside Amarillo, Texas, didn’t worry my father. When he drove that cross-country trip, he would make it in five days, rain or shine, tornado or hurricane. (No, we never had to negotiate a hurricane, but I have faith in the old man. He would have managed it.) The tornado dogged our steps for over an hour on the road. We even stopped for lunch in Amarillo, and the motherfucker waited for us to finish our meal.

I remember loving the way I could lean forward, overbalancing myself, my weight supported by the hot wind. Then the wind shifted, and my brother had to grab my arm to keep me from face-planting the asphalt.

5. Speaking of wind. Two, maybe three times a year, a hot wind would blow in off the northern desert and scour the L.A. basin of its smoggy cowl. I think these winds are called the Santa Anas. Only then would we see that the sky was a deep, dark blue; and, afterwards, the sun would burn with tenfold ferocity.

Thanks to the smog, evergreens in our hometown grew to a certain height and then flattened out, as if the gods had walked across their tops like paving stones. Any exceptional physical activity caused rib pain on inhalation. I always figured this was a natural accompaniment to exercise, not the symptoms of poisoning.

6. Sometime when I was a kid, I read about a volcano in Mexico that began as a small hill in some farmer’s field. I used to check our backyard every so often, waiting for the day when the earth would fissure, and tendrils of sulphurous smoke would reach out and creep along the ground. Then, I thought, our lives would be more interesting.

In ninth grade, I woke up one morning to a burnt umber sky. If that volcano hadn’t appeared in my backyard, surely it had appeared in someone else’s; a fine rain of ash had covered the cars and lawns with a gray cloak. The Angeles Crest Forest was on fire. We who took killer smog in stride would be blowing our noses for days, marveling at all the black snot.

7. Wind appears in my life at all of the darkest moments. In the Jewish youth group I belonged to, we once had a beach party, and I separated from the others to walk towards the surf, letting the feel of the wind and the roar of the waves whipsaw my soul. Nothing like a party to make me feel like someone who had no connection to the rest of humanity. Who knows what ulcer of adolescent angst rankled in my gut. Loneliness, no doubt, or perhaps the self-disgust of trying to be a part of something which wanted no part of me. The wind would take me if nothing else would. Trouble was, it always put me back.

8. The blue skies of Berkeley were the bluest I had ever known. First quarter of my freshman year, I liked to lie on the concrete benches near Kroeber Hall and Wurster Hall, staring up at the sky. Such clean air, such ideal weather, not too hot nor too cold; such perfect freedom from my parents, who lived a safe four hundred miles away. My girlfriend lived four hundred miles away, too, but I wrote to her daily and phoned her when I could. I would see her over the winter break. Everything would be fine.

9. And the wind was there again when I broke up with her. I had gone uninvited to visit her at her workplace on the college campus, and her displeasure at the surprise was evident. I didn’t stay long. I walked back to my car, where I had put too much money in the meter. I weaved through the bungalows, then stopped and let the wind chill me to the bone. It was all about becoming numb. I was losing something I had never had as a kid, and until recently, had never thought I could lose. Numbness seemed preferable.

10. The German newspapers claimed it was the coldest winter in decades. Never long on subtlety, they plastered the front pages with a man who had frozen to death in his car. This wasn’t far from my mind as I changed the flat tire on our rental car, my knees getting soaked with Autobahn slush. This was my honeymoon with Karen.

11. One of our more hare-brained adventures: we had a map of the Mojave Desert showing areas where the California Desert Tortoise was indigenous. Karen lasted perhaps ten or fifteen minutes before retreating to the car. I soldiered on, looking for the telltale holes which would signify a tortoise burrow. But the little bastards were too smart to come out on a blistering day like that.

12. Hail big as golf balls, and our poor Desert Tortoise, Sydney, was out there in the thick of it. (No, I hadn’t abducted one from the desert; we adopted one from a USC nurse.) To protect my head, I put on a bicycle helmet, and to protect my body, I wore a sweater and a jacket. Still not enough padding — I took several good blows to the shoulders, and the helmet got dinged pretty good, too. Sydney was fine. Probably wondered what the fuss was all about.

He was always looking for a way off the property. His mate had died some months ago of the respiratory illness which afflicts the California Desert Tortoise, and he was lonely. Our neighbors returned him to us a couple of times when he burrowed under the fence to pester their dog. One day he made a break for it and we never did see him again. Yeah, I’ve probably told this story before, but still: I like to think he’s still out there, frustrating cats and dogs and molesting the local tortoise gals.

13. Rain. What else should I expect from the Pacific Northwest? I don’t want to tell you how much money we’ve given contractors to fix our leaks. And what did I do about two hours ago? Set out three buckets for leaks. Again.

Kiss me in the rain, I want to get wet.

Berkeley Dorm spoof on the Streisand lyric.

You know what to do. Leave a comment. I’ll give you so much lurve, you’re bound to get wet.

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