Weather Superstitions

If I had a quarter for every time this past week that I heard "it's payback time," I'd cash in my frequent flyer miles and go somewhere warm.

I don't know if it's a Lutheran-Calvinist streak infecting Minnesota or what, but people around here don't seem to be able to accept gorgeous weather. This autumn produced a whole string of flawless days - setting some kind of record, I think. And when the first blast of arctic air hit the state, I hear people saying "knew we'd have to pay for all those beautiful days."

As though the weather gods have been keeping score and it is time to punish us for enjoying life. A theology based on a God out to get us, if we forget that pain ranks above pleasure. Even my favorite weather man, Paul Douglas said it - and I know he doesn't hear this kind of stuff at the church we both go to.

My grandfather used to plant radishes on Good Friday. The trouble with his gardening schedule is that Good Friday slides around the calendar like cars on black ice. He was on more solid ground when he planted potatoes as soon as budding oak leafs in the spring were the size of mouse ears. Though I am not sure where he observed oak trees, since I grew up on the flattest place on earth and oak trees were in short supply.

Five thousand years ago, the Neolithic people who built Stonehenge in England and the Ring of Brodgar in the Orkneys were much more scientific. They constructed architectual markers that told them when the equinox was upon them and it was planting time. Likewise, the people a thousand years ago in the Southwest's Chaco Canyon. They knew the annual pattern of the sun and stars were reliable guides and not subject to the whims of weather gods. Today, we are more awed because they also marked the solstice with their architecture - when no one is out planting anything.

The first garden calendar arrived this week. I was offended! Don't those folks know that garden catalogs are to be shipped the week after Christmas? I tossed it. After all, there are some rhythms of life that should not be violated! No matter what the weather-superstitious folks suggest.

                dreamt last night
                it was bitter January cold,
                huge stacks of mail arrived,
                dozens of seed catalogs,
                pages and more pages
                of bright pictures,
                sweet promises
                from the fertile earth
                     
                            from "summer death
                                              winter resurrection"
                                  in Waiting for the Heat to Pass
                                                  (by Elizabeth Nagel)

Meanwhile, I can only dream of warm places as I take note of the pale grey sky this morning and the concrete-like snow that is slowly disappearing to reveal green grass beneath. Sigh, Costa Rica would be nice . . .