How About This Weather?

Here's the thing about the weather:

In my experience, people are absolutely obsessed with weather. It matters to just about everybody what the temperature is going to be tomorrow, and what if anything is going to be falling from the sky. This need for information frequently extends beyond the reasonably guessable twenty-four hour window and off into the absurdly distant future. Nobody, for crying out loud, has any idea what it is going to be like ten days from now. And ten days from now, nobody, for crying out loud, will remember what it was supposed to have been like according to ten days ago. And yet there is persistent, massive, and wild speculation. Not only is there an obsession with the weather of the future, but the weather of the recent past and often immediate present is probably the single most common topic of small conversation, often in the form of statements so obvious ("Sure is cold out there, isn't it?") that they could only be topped by observations that a four-year old would be ashamed to have uttered ("Sun sure came up this morning, didn't it?").

And here's the thing about all of the weather-obsessed people of the world: they're right.

I could argue in broad, sweeping statements, about how weather is vitally important to human society, and etc. etc., but instead, I offer you the following account of the events and meterology of my December 25th:

12:15 a.m.
My family and I emerge from the 11 p.m. Christmas Eve church service to a damp, chilly, foggy, soul-sucking evening. The warm Christmas atmosphere does not completely desert us, but it does feel like someone has thrown a few soaking blankets on the evening. Things are good, but also wet and muffled.

8:00 a.m.
I awake to forty and rainy. The sky is spitting heavily on the earth. It is Christmas morning, and yet I actually consider going to sleep for another hour instead of driving the twenty minutes to my mom's house to open presents. I arrive with typical morning drowsiness, but also carrying a damp chill that only fully leaves me after two cups of coffee, fun with family, and a solid session of tearing open presents.

11:30 a.m.
Drive the five blocks from mom's house to dad's, reacquiring the dank heavy feeling. It is chased away by more presents, more family, and a plate full of turkey/mashed potatoes/gravy/etc. roughly the size of Montana.

1:30 p.m.
Presto change-o! Heavy, mean raindrops transform into heavy, perfect snowflakes! White Christmas! Outlook improves, despite the onset of food coma of epic proportions. Life feels more Christmasy. Not that it didn't before, but suddenly Christmas becomes Christmas. The fire is warmer. Bing Crosby sounds Bingier. Turkey is turkier. Eggnog, noggier. The family mood jumps a bit, the day turns a corner.

3:30 p.m.
Hats and coats on! Out into the snow! It has accumulated. Not much, sure, but it is still coming down hard and any covering of white is cause for first person experience. The snow is ridiculously slushy, making for excellent slip-sliding and deadly snowballs. A thirty minute walk yields many street signs pelted with projectiles, soaking wet gloves, a football thrown about, and the pure joy of strolling about in a heavy snowfall. The way that the persistent onrush of flakes brings a dynamic texture to the normally empty air never fails to amaze me. I can't look at it hard enough. I think there might not be many things more beautiful.