continued The breeze coming off the pond was negligible but discernable. It would be a perfect day for the water park.
With our shade trees and sunglasses, fans and air conditioners, swimming pools and waterslides, we brace ourselves for a summer that invariably manages to vex us nonetheless. We curse the blistering heat and the impossible humidity daily, until it rains. Then, after our gardens are properly drenched, we curse the rain. There is a valid reason for the saying that everyone speaks of the weather but does nothing about it.
The weather, delegated by the earth but ultimately dictated by the sun, is nonnegotiable and a major source of crankiness.
By balancing the mirror in an armpit of a small tree, I began shaving and was almost done when I heard footsteps behind me. It was a black bear, with dark and cold eyes like the godless universe, looking for food. When it found me instead, it stood on its hind legs and emitted a six feet tall, 400-pound growl.
The reasons for fabricating discomfort are as mysterious as they are varied. We parade grumpiness as if it were a divine right when logically it is merely a myth that has leeched on to our collective soul. Imagine a tin whistle feeling sorry for itself because it isn’t a symphony orchestra. Imagine a halibut harpooning itself because it can’t ride a bicycle. Imagine a bonsai weeping like a willow because it isn’t a redwood. Imagine a bear griping because it can’t fit through the eye of a needle.
Snow birds fly south with their Coppertone and umbrellas. Landscapers defy drought with time-controlled lawn sprinklers and moisture-sensing irrigation devices. Baseball players dread the dog days of summer while ice cream vendors complain of melting product.
I was perfectly fine back home in Cazenovia. The Yankees were in first, playing the Red Sox and my first zucchini plants were sprouting gherkin-like progeny.