It's hard to imagine 103 degrees in Seattle
while out here in the west of Ireland
the wind howls and shrieks and rattles
everything not nailed completely down
on the house, and then the rain, the rain....
I have to remember that if we drive the four
or so miles into town, the weather will most likely
be comparatively calm, Westport being nestled
in a little bowl, facing away from the Atlantic
from whence cometh all misery. Ahem.
But today I just couldn't bring myself
to get in the car and be jostled on bumpy
roads, look for a parking spot and dodge fellow
tourists on the sidewalks of town. So instead
I sent Paul to get me more cough syrup
(whose name sounds like vomit in the
onomatopoeic sense) and to rustle up
some sudafed or some other such decongestant
for my besieged upper respiratory system.
Meanwhile, I've brewed myself a mug of tea
infused with fresh orange peel and sliced ginger,
and I'll sit here and listen to the gale bellow
just on the other side of the glass.
A question: how is it that all these feather-weighted
birds -- sparrows, green finches, Irish robins -- can stand,
stand in this wind and nibble away at the seed
we've scattered, and not get blasted to smithereens?
I marvel at the ability to video-chat with my sons
on Skype. It's far from perfect, but it's damn great!
Yesterday Nelson's face kept reshaping itself
like something from a horror movie. And then he went
all Impressionist on me, all paint-daubed
and wavery, and his voice descended underwater
for a moment, then he froze in a weird twisted grin
and then the connection was lost. Imagine that --
a poor connection -- and for this we pay (not a thing.)
We did, however, manage to conduct a fair amount
of business during our spotty, wiggly, burbly call.
Still hashing out the details with the insurance co.
re: that nasty break-in. But it's moving forward.
It always does, doesn't it?