Tag: Weather

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Weather, by Ricky

When I came up with this response to the topic “weather,” there was a large heat wave in Colorado and several major forest fires burning out of control throughout the state.

Oh the temperature outside is frightful,
And the wildfires are so hurtful,
And since there’s no cold place to go,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!

The heat shows no sign of dropping,
And I’ve brought some corn for popping,
The shades are pulled way down low,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!

When we finally wave goodbye,
I’ll be going into hot weather!
But if you’ll give me a ride,
We can beat the heat together.

The fires are slowly dying,
And, my friends, we’re still goodbying,
But if you really love me so,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow!

Wait! I don’t want snow. I really want Baseball Nut ice cream and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper.*  

Baseball Nut Ice Cream

*Lyricist Sammy Cahn and the composer Jule Styne created Let It Snow in 1945 and is used here under the fair-use provisions of copyright law.

Baseball Nut ice cream is a trademark flavor by Baskins-Robins. Dr. Pepper is a trademark drink by Pepsi Co. (???)

© 1 July 2012

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced. 

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Blue Skies by Will Stanton

We all know that, traditionally, blue skies normally are equated with happiness and things in our lives going right. This notion frequently has been expressed in poetry, art, photography, and in songs, such as Irving Berlin’s famous “Blue Skies.” As his song suggests, being in love brings about happiness, symbolically expressed by blue skies.

People’s very real relief in finally seeing blue skies after months of winter’s dreariness has been a known phenomenon as long as human beings have been on Earth. My having grown up in a state where, each year, there were three hundred days of overcast, I recall people around me often became depressed and irritable around the month of February. Some people are so badly affected that they are required to subject themselves to daily light-therapy to lessen depression. Fortunately, I apparently have not been vulnerable to such ill effects.

I know that I am especially sensitive to beauty in nature, and that beauty can include blue skies. My favorite season is springtime when, very often, the temperature is moderately warm, perhaps with a cool breeze, few clouds are in the sky, and all of nature is turning colorful with green grass and multicolored blossoms. I experienced that feeling deeply during my recent walk through Commons Park here in Denver.

Ironically, however, there are three exceptions to my enjoyment of only blue skies. First of all, I have grown less tolerant of summer heat along with its blazing-blue skies. During such times, I crave shade and, perhaps, rainy skies. There also is my own, personal quirk that, if the skies outside my house are blight blue, I often have the uncomfortable feeling that I must be out and about, doing important things and accomplishing a lot. If outside is rainy or snowy, I don’t feel that way.

The third personal feeling is that I frequently do enjoy rainy skies, especially gentle springtime rain and subdued skies – – – that is, as long as I have shelter, especially my own home. At such times, I feel calm, more relaxed, even perhaps a little dreamy, which helps me with any creative endeavors I may be engaged in, such as writing these stories. After all, I have mentioned before that I have on my computer both a ripped sound-recording and also an audio-video recording of gentle rain, which I usually play while I am writing or engaged in other creative work.

I don’t know for sure whether my special enjoyment of overcast skies and rain is particular to me or whether people in general respond in the same way. If less common, perhaps my enjoyment of quiet skies is in-born. Maybe those feelings are from genetic memory, some of my early ancestors having come from the rainier climes of Britain.

After all, I have inherited, from that side of my family, genes from Normans, Welsh, Saxons, and the early indigenous inhabitants of those isles, called by the Saxons, “Elves” because of their short stature. As a matter of fact, I have come to think, over the years, that my Elvin heritage explains a lot about me. And, now you know.

© 03 June 2016


About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Weather or Not? It’s Too Darn Hot by Phillip Hoyle

I recall hearing the same weather adage used in different parts of the country as if it described a particular distinctive in each place. The adage: If you don’t like the weather, wait a few minutes; it will change. I first heard this saying in Kansas where the wind seemed always to blow. The constant wind seemed to be accompanied by fickle temperatures and varying precipitation, and sometimes even the wind changed by increasing, declining, or becoming a threatening vortex that threatened one’s property and life.

When as an adult I moved first to Texas, then Missouri, then New Mexico, then Colorado, and then Oklahoma, I heard the same claim. I’ve heard the adage spoken about atmospheric conditions in Ontario, Vermont, New York, California, North Dakota, and Wyoming. Surely the same is said in Wales, South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand. I suspect I’d hear it in Russia, China, and Bora Bora if I were to go to those places and understand their languages. Am I complaining about human complaining and sameness? Not really although we can get really boring.

What I am interested to say today is that I’ve learned more about myself by observing the weather in contrasting climates. For instance, while living in Mid-Missouri, a place with high humidity, wide seasonal changes in temperatures, and the same number of contrasting hot and cold fronts as the rest of the country, I would get headaches when the barometer plunged. Eventually the headaches became intense enough I would leave work, go home, take ibuprofen, and lie down to sleep. Within an hour I’d be just fine and return to work. A few years later I moved to dry, dry Albuquerque. I quit having the headaches, but eventually I noticed I’d have a change in mood when the barometer plunged. I was more fascinated than concerned. I’d never noticed any change of mood in my whole life being mostly sunny and hopeful and silly and laughing. The mood swing would last about one hour. For that I was thankful and eventually connected these events with the old headaches I’d had in Missouri. Finally I realized that in Missouri I constantly had sinus and Eustachian tube problems. The barometric change caused the headache that probably masked a mood change. In the dry air of New Mexico I liked having a simple mood change because I didn’t have to interrupt my work. I learned to take the ibuprofen anyway and within an hour or less my mood went back to generally sunny.

The new experiences did raise a question for me. I had observed my father’s increasing difficulties with depression as he aged. Was I in for the same? Thankfully, I have not yet experienced what he did, something I suppose relates to inheriting my mother’s positive outlook which surely arose from her brain chemistry. My dad’s health often challenged him; his heart attacks, the rare tic douloureux (trigeminal neuralgia) pain disease, spinal meningitis, and eventual stroke made life difficult. Depression was not surprising. Now I too have experienced depression, thankfully at a sub-clinical level. I take St. John’s Wort to good effect and when the barometer drops, sometimes double my dosage.

I have another weather query though. How does climate change affect the weather? Will global warming change the weather and one’s experience of its power? My experience suggests that one still suffers the weather wherever one lives; I say suffer because one has no real control of the weather. I also found that a change in my life from straight to gay seemed like a move to a much better climate. Overall, my life seemed enriched and often more fulfilling. My life seemed more authentically ‘me’ bringing thrills, insights, and a sense of rightness. Still the headaches, mood changes, and general challenges of life moved with me into this new authentic-feeling climate. You know what I mean; in summer it can still be too darn hot even if your baby is the same brand of gay as you!

© Denver, 2012

About the Author


Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen practicing massage, he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists and volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot


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Weather by Betsy


When you are on a bicycle every day for 2 months, what the
weather is or is going to be takes on rather major importance.  I learned this when riding across the U.S. in
2005.  I have written about having to
carry our bicycles through flooded country roads and having to push our
bicycles on foot for fear of being blown over the side of the cliff which runs
beside the highway on Needle’s Eye Pass. 
Or how about the day we rode 95 miles–the last 5 miles a climb straight
up a mountain to McDonald Observatory with temperatures hovering around 100;
the hardest ride of the entire trip. 
Weather is everything in situations like that. 
Oh, and by the way, never try riding or hiking over a
mountain pass even if there is the slightest threat of lightning.  VERY DANGEROUS!  Especially those high Colorado passes.  Plan to do the pass sometime before
noon.  Unless you like having your hair
stand up on end, which it will, trust me.
The subject of weather reminds me of the very first
long-distance cycling trip I ever took.
This was in 1982. 
The cycling equipment and comfort clothes we take for granted today were
unknown then, at least unknown to my daughter, her boy friend, and me.
The three of us set out on a fine summer day in western NY
state.  We would cycle along the rural
roads of western NY state and into Pennsylvania and the Alleghany
mountains.   We wore no helmets–also
unknown to us–and carried only day packs as we would overnight in motels in
the small towns we rode through.  This
was a fairly well planned trip which would take us back to our starting point
in about 1 week.  Plans were well laid
out except for rain gear.  We just didn’t
plan on having inclement weather. 
Well, we didn’t have inclement weather until the last 2
days of the trip.  And my, did it
rain!  And it would not let up.  For protection against the elements we had in
our joint possession 3 large size garbage bags. 
That was it.  We thought we could
wait it out but we all had deadlines and did not have the flexibility of
waiting for another weather system to replace the current wet one.   We were no where near a town large enough to
have a store that might have some decent cycling rain gear.  So we headed out in our garbage bags.   That gear was worse than inadequate.  I don’t mind being wet, but I don’t like
being cold.  And before long I was just
that.  I’m not sure about Lynne and
Dave.  I was too cold to ask.  Let’s just get home, I thought.  The rain never did let up.  Fortunately we did get home soon after the
cold crept in so there were no dire consequences to that.  So except for the last day, it was a
wonderful trip.  The vision of the three
drenched garbage bags riding into town still gives us a good laugh.
© 7 July 2013

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Weather by Ricky

When I came up with this response to the topic “weather,” there was a large heat wave in Colorado and several major forest fires burning out of control throughout the state.

Oh the temperature outside is frightful,

And the wildfires are so hurtful,
And since there’s no cold place to go,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!

The heat shows no sign of dropping,

And I’ve brought some corn for popping,
The shades are pulled way down low,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! I Want Snow!
When we finally wave goodbye,
I’ll be going into hot weather!
But if you’ll give me a ride,
We can beat the heat together.

The fires are slowly dying,

And, my friends, we’re still good-byeing,
But if you really love me so,
Let It Snow! Give Me Snow! Wait! 
 I don’t want snow. I really want Baseball Nut ice cream and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper.*

Baseball Nut Ice Cream

*Lyricist Sammy Cahn and the composer Jule Styne created Let It Snow in 1945 and is used here under the fair-use provisions of copyright law. Baseball Nut ice cream is a trademark flavor by Baskins-Robins. Dr. Pepper is a trademark drink by Pepsi Co. 

© 1 July 2012

About the Author

Ricky was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while his parents obtained a divorce; unknown to him.

When united with his mother and stepfather in 1958, he lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. He says, “I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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Weather by Colin Dale

Just before leaving home, for the fun of it, I checked the temperature in Elsinore, Denmark. The castle in Elsinore, you recall, was Hamlet’s stamping ground. Well, at 1 PM our time, or 9 PM Denmark time, the temperature in the courtyard of Hamlet’s old castle was 9 degrees Celsius, or a comfortable 48 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s about right for a Danish evening in June. Which makes me wonder if Hamlet ever had to put up with a string of super hot days like we’re having here in Denver.

Yet it was Hamlet who said, ” . . . there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

I grew up in the Land of Ouch! I grew up in the Land of Ouch! and it has made me the man I am today, for better or worse. My mother and father were perpetual sufferers. They lived afflicted by demons, imagined, or if not imagined, then at least fed and made fat by my parents everyday fears. Now, before I say another deprecating word about my parents, let me say that I’m now old enough to once again respect and love them. I’m old enough to have made it through those long middle years when it’s common and, in fact, expected to loathe one’s parents. I see them now as the long-suffering strivers they were.

But long-suffering is the operant phrase. Long-suffer they did, and cry Ouch! at the most unexpected of times and at the most inconsequential of bad moments. As a kid growing up around my mother and father, I grew conditioned to vaulting from my room at all hours at the sound of Ouch! Or Damn! Or This is killing me! What I’d find arriving at the ambush site, time after time, was my mother or my father looking helplessly at a dropped slice of toast, or a slightly larger-than-usual phone bill, or a tabloid story of a crime wave happening a hundred miles away. I continued my Pavlovian response to my parents’ homicidal demons until my breakaway moment when, at 21, I allowed myself to be drawn, pretend-kicking, into the Army.

What, you have every right to ask, does all this have to do with weather? I’ll admit there’s some connecting called for here. To do that, I have to introduce what I call the Curmudgeon’s Bill of Rights . . .

The Curmudgeon’s Bill of Rights is a catalogue of entitlements earned when someone has lived at least three score years. You can tell if someone is invoking his Curmudgeon rights when he (or she) starts by saying, “When I was growing up, people didn’t [fill in the blank],” or “You’ll find out when you’re my age that [fill in the blank],” or “People today have no respect for [fill in the blank],” or some other clue of curmudgeondom.

But so far, you’re thinking, you’ve only told us about the weather in Denmark. True, but I’m getting close.

There’s yet another right, available to curmudgeons but rarely invoked–Clause 11.4–and that is to debunk anything said under the Curmudgeon Bill of Rights. Or, for that matter, to debunk anything said by anybody, no matter his or her age–any Ouch! or Damn! or This is killing me! said under the First Amendment.

Confession time: I subscribed to Clause 11.4–the debunking the debunking clause–of the Curmudgeon Bill of Rights long before I was eligible–soon after I left home, in fact, eager to escape the Land of Perpetual Complaining I’d grown up in.

And now, the long-awaited convergence: weather, with everything else . . .

I am tired of hearing people complain about the weather. Now, I’m not talking about people who are genuinely suffering, ill, or living in really stuffy, airless houses. No, their misery is real. I’m talking about 90% of the people I meet every day, my friends and neighbors, who seem to take perverse pleasure in kvetching endlessly about the heat. When I hear from these people–“Oh, this heat is killing me,” or “I’ve never been so miserable,” or “When will this hot weather end?”–all I hear, from my childhood, is Ouch! or Damn! After all, none of my friends or neighbors–ages young to curmudgeon–is hammering up plywood sheets against a Katrina or praying Godspeed! for a fishing crew lost in a Perfect Storm. For my reasonably healthy friends and neighbors it is merely hot. Stinking hot, yes, I’ll admit, it is stinking hot. But, for these reasonably healthy people, it’s not lethally hot. Or toxically hot. Or death-dealingly hot. For my friends and neighbors who, for the most part, go from one air-conditioned bubble to another, only occasionally sampling the real world, these temps in the 90’s and low 100’s are hardly going to make the black camel kneel down. They’ll survive this, my pampered friends and neighbors, to kvetch–a very few months from now–about the winter: “This cold is killing me!” or “I hate the ice!” or “Don’t we have enough snow already?”

I began by saying that growing up in the Land of Ouch! made me the man I am today. My impatience with the hale & hearty and their relentless complaining about the hot weather is neither right nor wrong. It’s just how it is. And who I am. It’s me invoking Clause 11.4: my debunking the debunker’s right.

Now, some of you are probably ready to hit me with That’s easy for you to say! In my defense, I’ll admit I feel this heat as much as any of you. I walk most everywhere. I drive with the air-conditioner off. I live in an un-air-conditioned house which, now that I’m retired, I’m in 24/7.

Okay, I’m done kvetching about spoiled kevetchers. I’ll back off my molly-coddled friends and neighbor and let them get back to complaining about the weather and everything else that simply is.

I do, though, apologize to anyone here who might be ticked off by my rant against Ouch! What I would do, if I’ve ticked off anyone, is encourage you to say To hell! with what I’ve said–which is your right–if you’re old enough–under the Curmudgeon’s Bill of Rights: another rarely invoked clause (Clause 17.7): to say To hell! with even my self-righteous complaining, otherwise known as the debunking of the debunking of the debunking clause.

Remember Hamlet, the guy who said, ” . . . there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so”?

Well, I’m realistic enough to think even Hamlet, after a few weeks of temps in the 90’s and low 100’s, in his starched ruff, brocade doublet, and wool pumpkin pants, would have said, “All the thinking in the world won’t help, not when it’s this freakin’ hot!”

© 9 August 2012


About the Author

Colin Dale couldn’t be happier to be involved again at the Center. Nearly three decades ago, Colin was both a volunteer and board member with the old Gay and Lesbian Community Center. Then and since he has been an actor and director in Colorado regional theatre. Old enough to report his many stage roles as “countless,” Colin lists among his favorite Sir Bonington in The Doctor’s Dilemma at Germinal Stage, George in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Colonel Kincaid in The Oldest Living Graduate, both at RiverTree Theatre, Ralph Nickleby in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby with Compass Theatre, and most recently, Grandfather in Ragtime at the Arvada Center. For the past 17 years, Colin worked as an actor and administrator with Boulder’s Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Largely retired from acting, Colin has shifted his creative energies to writing–plays, travel, and memoir.

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Snowstorm by Phillip Hoyle

     “We sure used to get a lot more snow than we do now,” is a sentiment I’ve heard many times, but I am cautious of the claim which seems akin to the old timer’s story of how many miles he had to walk through the snow to get to school. The main way to know about weather—how it was—is to study weather records. Still, to tell a story about the weather is to reveal more than the weather. It exposes a person’s feelings, a yearning for an experience of old, a desire to touch again some past season of delight or dread.

     My story celebrates my favorite stage of childhood development—that cusp of so many changes often called pre-pubescence. What I like most about the phase is the way the child is open to dream, ready to believe, full of play, and living in the now—at least that’s how I experienced it that winter of 1959, the winter of the big snow. We used to have snows in my childhood and celebrated them with snow angels, snow balls, snow forts, and snow men. But that winter the big storm brought new big snow adventures.

      Our gang, with our hideout in the rafters of my folks’ garage, hung out together at every opportunity. Gang travel had originally taken us to each other’s houses, then to the high school football field one block down the alley, then to the public swimming pool one mile away, and eventually to the hills and valleys several miles west of town.

     The summer before the storm, we hiked or rode our bicycles out west to a farm where we were allowed to play in the pastures. My best friend Keith took us to where a small spring flowed from the hillside. There we refilled our canteens. Downstream we would set up camp, build a small fire, cook whatever food we’d brought from home, and generally enjoy one another. That fall, we brought along our bows and arrows and hunted cottontails. We pursued those elusive hoppers for hours, stalking, chasing, shooting, running, screaming, and never once making a kill. We laughed raucously, imagining ourselves hunters, adventurers, and we slept deeply upon returning home at night.

     Then the snow came. It wasn’t a dusting; it wasn’t a snow that covered your shoes; it was a real snow, you know, like those we used to get in the old days, one that brought the town to a halt, a two-foot snow with wind, drifts, more snow. But Saturday dawned sunny. We gathered with sleds and plans and trudged west, out to the hills to make the best of it.

     The big snow came in the best year of my life, the one in which I lost track of time, the one I celebrated friendship along with country adventures. I was in the sixth grade, the year before I started sacking and carrying groceries at the store. Keith and I, probably Dinky and Dick too, went sledding in the deep snow. We had Boy Scout training and felt older-elementary-male confidence. We hiked west of town to a hillside where we could sled down to a ravine of woods where we could then get out of the wind. We spent all day for three Saturdays in a row out there having our winter adventures. Each week our Imaginations soared, our plans got bolder. New snow fell each week and although we nearly froze hiking through snow often over our knees, we laughed our way like fools or kings or warriors. In the woods we built a fire, and when we had warmed ourselves and dried our clothes, gave ourselves to snow play like never before.

     After two Saturdays out, Keith remembered seeing some old skis in his dad’s workshop. They were simple things, not long, but short skis with only a single leather strap across the midpoint, a place to insert the shoes. They must have been used on the farm when chores had to be completed but the snow was too deep for easy walking to the barn, at least that was our Kansas winter fantasy. The skis certainly were not meant for downhill skiing, but we were boys with great imaginations and enough snow to make a ramp.

     We reasoned if we let the old German sled with steel covered wooden runners glide down the hill on its own, it would show us the best route for skiing. So we climbed the hill, and turned the sled loose, trusting in good luck and gravity. Following the sled, we tramped the area between the runner marks for our ski run. We had no poles but along the ravine found sticks to serve. With them we hurried back up the hill to try out the skis. We were pleased with our few successes and gleefully took turns trying until one of the brittle leather straps broke. Our disappointment led to more ideas. Keith thought we should go down the track on our sleds. When we discovered most of the sleds sat too low to make any speed, he brought the old German one to the top and sat on it, aimed downhill and went hurtling down our well packed run. Having forgotten his sixth grade science lessons on gravity, he’d made no plans for how to stop the sled. This was no drivable sled with flexible runners, no way to guide or stop it except by dragging a leg behind. But Keith wasn’t lying down. He was sitting tall and speeding down the hill towards the woods. He stopped when the front of the sled hit a sapping and broke the metal brace. He stopped when his crotch met the rough bark. He stopped when the tree knocked the wind of him and threw him to the ground. We ran to his rescue, dragged him over to the fire to warm up. He finally got his breath and described his feeling of elation on his brief trip from the top. We shared our snacks with Keith, our athletic hero, my best friend. Then, like good Scouts, we put out the fire and dragged home our sleds and packs. We trudged through the snow, laughing, making big plans for the next big snow.

     A year lapsed before it came. By then, I was helping customers get their groceries to their cars. I never returned to the slopes, but fortunately I did get to sled as an adult, then being pulled by ropes behind an International Harvester Scout up Highway 90 in western Colorado and sailing free back down the steep slope of the road’s switch backs. That ride took me back to my childhood and extended my thrill from a ride of a few feet to one of nearly a mile. Such a thrill. Such a fine reminder of the big Kansas snows and our small sixth grade adventures.

     I’m still amazed when the snow piles up. I have such fond memories, but now I also think about driving in blizzards and inconveniences such as the loss of work. My enthusiasm is dampened by adult concerns. Still, I say, “We used to get a lot more snow years ago,” and let my memory slide down the hills of yearning. I smile. I love my friends. I love my life. I love the snow.

Denver, 2011

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Horizontal Rain by Betsy

          Whump!! The wet bed sheet hit me on the side of the face as I was trying to attach a corner to the clothes line. “I’m trying to hold it steady!” yelled Gillian. Her words were inaudible in the howling wind and driving rain. Our last act before leaving what had been our home for the past five weeks was almost an impossible task. Two women could barely manage, working together, to hang one bed sheet on a clothes line.

          Whump! whump! went the sheet again and again as we battled the relentless wind.

          “Well, we’re leaving the Orkney Islands on a very typical day, aren’t we,” I screamed over the wind.

          “Yes,” yelled Gill. “We better get moving and get this laundry hung pretty fast. We can’t miss the ferry.”

          I wondered why our house exchange hosts had a washer but no dryer. After all we wanted to leave the house in good order. This meant washing household linens at the last minute. And, yes, drying them. But this had to be done using the resources at hand; namely, a clothes line and clothes pins. And it had to be done NOW. We couldn’t leave wet laundry in a pile in the house. Never mind that the wind was blowing about 50 mph and the rain was coming down harder than ever.

          Not that it was unusual for it to rain and blow. In our five weeks visit to these islands north of the Scottish mainland there had been very few days when it did not rain. And the wind–oh the wind. The wind caused it to rain horizontally most of the time. Consequently, the laundry flew horizontally on the line. And today was no exception. The lovely people of the islands have a saying. “If the wind ever stops blowing, we will all fall over as we are forever leaning into it.”

          It had been a magical time–our five weeks on one of the islands of Orkney. In spite of the islands’ abominable weather, we had visited most of the archeological sites many of them newly discovered and older than anything either of us had ever seen before. We had truly enjoyed the rugged coastline with its high cliffs and pounding surf below–the home to puffins, oyster-catchers, all kinds of gulls, and many other birds. The people we had met there were truly delightful as well–living a very laid back, slow-paced, rural lifestyle.

          Now it was time to leave and we would miss all of this for it had been a wonderful experience. But in unspoken agreement we knew neither of us would miss the rain! And my, it did rain!

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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MY Did It Rain by Betsy

“This has got to be the worst weather yet,
don’t you think,” asked Carole.  “And I’m
getting really cold.”
No wonder. 
We had been pedaling our bikes since day break in the pouring rain.  We were completely saturated and it was
barely mid-morning. 
“Let’s stop for coffee if we ever come to a
shop.”  We had seen nothing but flooded
farmers’ fields for the last 10 miles.  
“We’re going toward the river road. 
The next town should be coming up soon,” said Cathy hopefully.
Another five miles and we did reach the river
road.  No sign of the town or our support
vehicle known as Bo Peep–so named because she was always losing us–her
sheep.  Nor had there been a sign of tour
company’s van and the trailer hauling our luggage and traveling kitchen. 
“It’s getting so dark, “yelled Cathy. 
“The weather just keeps getting worse.  Let’s just hope we don’t get serious thunder
and lightning.  We’ll have to hole-up for
awhile if that happens.  Meantime, I
would like to get to a coffee shop as soon as possible,” I said. Privately I
was thinking, “I MUST get to a coffee shop soon.”
This was Mississippi in late April.  We had completed 2/3 of our cycling trip from
the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic.  Up to
now–from California to Louisiana– the weather had been pretty good.  Not perfect, but mostly dry and benign.   It had obviously been raining here for quite
some time.  The fields in this rural area
of southern Mississippi were badly flooded and the rivers were very high.
Just when the rain did let up a bit we came upon
a low-lying section of road about 1/4 mile long.  The water was completely covering the road;
so deep, we could not actually be sure we were on the pavement.  We had no choice but to carry our bicycles
through the two feet of water to the place beyond where the road became visible
again.  Not only was the road covered,
but also there was a rather formidable current running across it coming out of
a nearby swamp.
          As
we were emerging from this quagmire almost home free, we heard a vehicle
droning along behind us.  It was our tour
van and trailer.  The van was doing well
to get through the flooded road.  The
attached trailer on the other hand, was literally floating atop the water, its
wheels having most definitely left the ground, moving at an angle in the
current while at the same time holding on for dear life to it’s life support,
the van, which we all prayed would not stall in the flood.  We stood gaping in horror at this sight each
of us going over in our heads the condition our belongings would be in by the
time they reached dry ground. 
“My computer is in there, cried Carole.  Mine, too,” screamed Cathy.
Talking about the events of the day at our
group gathering that evening Cathy, Carole and I learned that we were fortunate
to be one of the first groups to finish that ride that day.  We were indeed glad of this when one woman
said “ Walking our bikes through the water wouldn’t have been so bad if someone
hadn’t told us beforehand to watch out for the snakes and alligators!”  The three of us agreed we were much better
off not knowing about those hazards. And we were relieved
to learn that the van trailer kept our belongings dry and secure.
“Of course,” I thought.  “It was floating.  It must be water-tight.”  A good thing! 
We had stew for dinner that night.  Claudia, our cook and heroic van driver, had
purchased everything for tonight’s dinner early that morning before the watery
event.  It was all safe and sound in the
trailer kitchen she assured us.  But I’m
not so sure.  I could have sworn that
stew meat had a gamey, reptilian taste to it.

About the Author

Betsy
has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s
chorus,  OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing
for Change).  She has been retired from
the Human Services field for about 15 years. 
Since her retirement her major activities include tennis, camping,
traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports
Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25
years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and
enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and
most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25
years, Gillian Edwards.