Today I received a call from the FM radio station in Ketchikan and the news reporter asked me, as a poet, if I had any comment on the fact that today was the seventieth day of rain in a row.
“Excuse me?”
He repeated the question, and I was a little shocked. First, because no one has ever asked me for my reaction about anything “as a poet.” and second, I didn’t know it had actually rained fro seventy days in a row. So, I asked him to clarify. “Yep, I checked with the weather service. both Ketchikan and Sitka, have had seventy days of “significant, measurable precipitation” for seventy straight days. it’s a new record.”
“Wow,” I said.
I did quibble a bit and observed that it “hadn’t rained non-stop for seventy days”,… which is a kind of pathetic defense someone with a sort Stockholm syndrome would make
“No. Just significant, measurable precipitation. Would you like to comment?”
All I could think of was that I had mowed the lawn this weekend while it was raining because the grass was way too long, and the result was not good. I told him, I noticed today that when you mow the long grass in the rain after two weeks of rain, it results in a really bad looking job. The lawn looks like the time my sister and my wife both got drunk and offered to cut my hair. My head looked… kind of patchy, and overlong in places, as if they had tried to naw it off. …. Wait…. it’s really been seventy days of rain? “
This new fact began to explain some things. Such as why my music pals were so grumpy this Sunday. The tempos were slow and everything seemed to drag. Of course we were blowing on our hands to keep warm and wearing our slickers.
Jan also explained something to me, which seems a little more clear. I had been telling her about how I thought the people at the dog park were a little stand-offish about having Dot around. And to prove my point I drove her up there. The lady with the french bull dogs was there and as soon as we pulled up and I let Dot out everyone scattered and left. Of course I said my proper hellos to everyone “Bon Jour! Bon Jour!” to the little snobby dogs. as they scattered.
Wisteria
“Hold on John,” Jan said, “Do you use that outrageous French accent with all the dogs?”
“No!, just with the French dogs. With the Scotties I use and outrageous Scottish accent…”
“And with the Australian Shepard?” She stared at me.
“G’day Mate!”
“What accent do you use for the Beagle?” Her tone was more sour.
“Good question, and thank you for asking,” I continued “I settled on an upper crust British accent because they are used for Fox Hunting don’t you know?”
“Kind of like your Churchill ‘We will fight them on the beaches’ speach?”
“Exactly,” it works well for a Beagle…. and no, there are no Bull Dogs up at the dog park yet. I’ll cross that proverbial bridge when I get there.” I said in my best Chruchill.
“John… I don’t think Dot is not the problem for why people are clearing out of the dog park when you guys come here.”
This is when it dawned on me that the persistent rain must be getting everyone down but me. Thank God for ketamine! It’s better than a sun lamp, and hand warmers. Maybe I will tell the Dog Parkers about my experience with ketamine next time we all get together for any length of time! Maybe we could have an international picnic and bring snacks for the nationalities of our dogs. Dot of course is French so I will bring cigarettes for everyone. It should go well.
Singing old songs while
mowing the lawn in the rain:
I want to kiss you.
jhs
Here is a reading from Ruth Matson’s book Happy Alaskans, We.
