There are several variations of the infamous, “If you don’t like the weather
today" quote. The first six words are ironclad, but the remaining punchline has been adapted to fit whatever region of the world an individual happens to reside in. It makes total sense for us folks here in Nebraska, as it certainly does in any of our neighboring states.
And it’s quite possible – in fact it’s almost a sure bet, that the euphemism is not strictly an American filler during idle conversation.
I pity the poor little generals in North Korea who have to tell the pudgy dictator Kim Jong Un that their missile test scheduled for that day needs to be postponed because of unfavorable conditions. In an effort to put a brighter spin on it, they’ll surely remind him that by tomorrow the forecast will be ideal. Depending upon his mood, there might be one less mouth to feed at the table that night.
A quick bit of research this morning after school was called off, I learned that neither Mark Twain nor Will Rogers can be given credit for originating the phrase. A few indicators point to a writer for Field & Stream magazine around 1920, but nothing has been solidly verified. No matter I suppose, there aren’t any residual dollars paid for the verbal repeating of a copyrighted piece in journalism.
Several years ago when spring looked to have arrived early and summer temperatures were being talked about, I was anxious to get the garden started… which I did. A few of the locals told me it was too soon.
"Nah," I thought to myself. "It'll be fine." After a late season freeze and then a few days of consistent rain, the third planting finally began to sprout.
Trying to be 45 days ahead of schedule cost me some time, some money, and worst of all, some pride.
Talking with my comrades at the bus barn in late February and early March, I commented how winter must be over and any additional snowfall is unlikely. They looked at me as if I were a stranger in a strange land.
Delta Kilo assured me that Mother Nature wasn't finished quite yet. Not wanting to ruffle feathers, I told him halfheartedly that he was probably right, still believing deep down in my soul that I was. Wrong. Chalk up another ding on the ego meter.
It was a pleasant Palm Sunday afternoon; working on a batch of chicken noodle soup and sipping on a medicinal beverage while fighting a head cold.
Chatting with my betrothed, we talked about March Madness scores, the impending forecast and its impact of Monday’s work schedule. Predications from the professionals for each of these two topics were plentiful and we’d pick and choose the desirable storylines (a.k.a. wishes) as we saw fit.
As the evening wore on, the basketball brackets were being juggled and rewritten while the color coded counties anticipating a dozen types of moisture heading our way were not. Exchanging our thoughts and ideas on what our preferences are, it became clear that our opinions were indeed like elbows and everyone has a couple of them.
When the 10 o'clock news was finished, the only completely definitive information we could bank on were the scores. Any phone calls or text messages regarding Monday morning’s duty or lack thereof never arrived. No worries and all is well. The soil is soaking up some much needed nourishment and life is good. Thank you, Jesus.
The coffee pot is programmed to start brewing at 4:30, the flavor and aroma divine. After my 50 push-ups and 50 sit-ups each morning, I’ll be ready to tackle whatever comes my way. Oh how I tickle myself. Writing a little fiction every now and again is therapy; I hope it’s working.
