A Weather Report

Perhaps the Rolling Stones should have written a song called Paint It Grey. At least the thought of the color black carries with it certain emotional connotations. It is easy to feel down in Missoula, Montana, during the months of winter and early spring. In the last five days, the sun has shown its face only once. Words like dull, drab, dreary, and Edgar Allen Poe come to mind. The sky seems to be changeless, and it reminds us that winter is in full swing.

After living in Missoula for eighteen months, I think I can understand why humans worshipped the sun for millennia. The Greeks had Apollo. The Egyptians had Ra. We have Capitalism. Whenever we feel down, the American societal remedy seems to be to go out and buy something that we can show to our neighbors. Forgive me for not subscribing to the popular deities of George, Andrew, and Benjamin

But in truth, the Missoula valley has made me appreciate the rapidly changing weather on the plains of my youth. In Missoula, if it’s raining when you wake up in the morning, it will likely rain all day. Likewise, if the sun shines in the morning, it will shine until it sets across the Bitterroot Mountains to the west. Where I grew up, there was a saying: If you don’t like the weather wait five minutes and it’ll change. Here you can wait five days without seeing a new cloud or the tiniest ray of sunlight.

Over a year ago, my parents planned to visit me for Thanksgiving. As it turned out, their flight was canceled due to heavy fog in the valley. When I say “heavy fog,” I mean thicker than pea soup. (It was at least on par with potato soup. Maybe even grandma’s gravy.) Simply riding my bike across town scared me because I couldn’t see the handle bars in front of my face, let alone the oncoming traffic. During that spell of nasty weather, we didn’t see the sun for almost three weeks (I know, I counted). Some of my older friends who are also graduate students remember calling Missoula “Mordor” long before The Lord of the Rings became cool again.

Yet despite all this, seasons do change. Though I am well trained as an historian, I find it difficult to think in concepts of linear time. (At this point, I will offer my apologies to St. Augustine and my traditional Christian upbringing as well as my confession of heresy before the Inquisition.) I know that the Poe-inspiring days of winter will soon yield spring and a return of the sun. The flowers will bloom again, the skies will be clear, and the deer will feed on fresh grass in my front yard. There is a certain rhythm to life is this place.

I live in hope of that natural rhythm. The changing of the seasons is the heartbeat of the world. Without the pulse, our existence would go into cardiac arrest. Each season brings another beat in time. Each beat brings us one cycle closer to beginning the process of birth, youth, maturity, and death once more. The changes cannot be stopped. Because of this, I will embrace the cloudy skies. I know the darkness means the sun will shine once more. And somehow I will cope, even though the Rolling Stones missed the mark.

A Cult of Domesticity

The air was crisp and chilled on Christmas Eve as I ran down the highway. Several years passed since the last time my feet glided across this stretch of Iowa asphalt. Despite the fact that I'd only recently recovered from mono, I had to run outside on Christmas Eve. Particularly, I had to run on this mostly abandoned highway at sundown. I remembered what happened the last time, and I was curious if they were still waiting for me.

Three years ago, I ran down this same highway at twilight on a windy Christmas Eve. I passed a small gathering along the side of the road. As I approached, they all came to the fence and stared at me as I passed by. One by one, their heads turned as I passed within an arm's reach of their long faces and beady eyes. They looked so sad on Christmas. Yet they seemed to silently cheer me onward. It was as if my arrival had been foretold, and all gathered by the fence as I passed. Some of them gave snorts of approval. Others nodded their heads rapidly up and down as if bowing before my fast-moving presence. One even relived himself (What, were you expecting gold, frankincense, and myrrh?).

I ran past the solemn Christmas celebration and thought little of it. Only on my return trip did I feel uneasy and paranoid with the patient praise these fellows seemed to be giving me. The gathering was still motionless at the fence. Waiting. Looking down the highway at me once again. It was as if they knew I would return. I passed by, and once again every wood-like face turned in unison as I ran toward my grandparents' house. A few hundred yards later, I flipped a glance over my shoulder. They were still congregated at the fence watching me as I ran off into the sunset.

The last time I looked, they continued to watch as I slowly faded into the wanning Christmas Eve daylight.

Sure enough, the gathering was still waiting for me at the fence when I returned on Christmas Eve this year. I had been absent three years. Yet these simple creatures appeared to wait in the same position. They gathered at the fence and stared as I came down the highway. I wonder what they expected from me. A miracle? One who would save and deliver them from their bondage? The Meschiach?

Or maybe I read too much into the random acts of domesticated animals. Perhaps they were simply llamas. Yes, perhaps they were llamas with nothing better to do on Christmas Eve than wait by a fence for three years to see a skinny white boy break a 4:50 mile. A miracle? A messiah?

Foolish llamas!