No Logic for the Neurotic in PG

I'm convinced Pacific Grove's weather was invented by a Swiss man whose world was precise, logical and finely regulated.  Every day at 1 PM, the sun gets hazy and a breeze springs into action.  Leaves and dust that have been diligently swept into the gutters by our citizenry is immediately airborne and sent back from where it came as well as through every open window in town.

The immediate question springs to mind:  Why bother sweeping and raking at all?

In PG, that's a rhetorical question, almost a philosophical one, for which I have no certain answer.  It does defy logic, to an alarming degree.

I want to go up to people and explain the weather certainties, tell them about the Little Swiss Watchmaker God of Pacific Grove Wind who has set the breeze to lift at 1 PM.  I want to soothe their anxiety about neatly raked lawns left unkempt.  I believe if they would just simply leave (pardon the pun) for a few days, escape the confines of this peninsula of the Peninsula, they would be less neurotic about their compulsion to rake and neaten every morning, when the air is still, before the wind comes up.  They say that pacing bears in zoos need mental outlet, diversion, entertainment.  Raking citizens of The Groove would surely benefit from similar diversion and activity.

Don't even get me started on leaf blowers.

Quiet Storm

The latest storm, which is a shy-seeming one, tiptoed into our area yesterday, disheveling trees with noncommittal puffs of wind.  It has a bit of an ambivalent approach to stormhood; I suspect it will disappear as quietly as it has come, probably after it has a chance to sit, rest and ponder the unknowable reach of the universe for a while.  More of a wet sneeze than a rain has moistened the ground and splashed cars and streets.

Even so, the air is cool outside and requires that you layer your clothing.

March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb is the old saying.  I'm not sure I've ever fully embraced that idea.  March comes in like a very confused person wearing a raincoat that's buttoned wrong and socks that don't match.  You know the kind of person:  "I can't find my glasses.  I put them down and now they're gone."  Tossing heaps of magazines aside and looking in the most unlikely places, where they've never put their glasses ever before.  There's no logic, no rhyme, no reason.  Then, suddenly they're beaming with happiness and relief, discovering they'd had the glasses in their hand the whole time.  March does that; it ends up feeling satisfied and relieved but still a little rumpled, waiting for April to come 'round.

Since the winter solstice, the days have been getting longer and the nights shorter than they were back then.  I noticed this morning that there was more light when I got up.  You don't notice that every day; the change feels to have arrived in a chunk of difference, but really it has happened every day, two minutes at a time.

My favorite flowers, daffodils, are blooming, waving, tossing their heads coquettishly.  I used to think they might jump up and sing like the Munchkins in Oz, but if they do, it's with tiny voices I might have mistaken for something else all this time.  My sweet potato vines are swinging low, singing high.

The quiet storm, uncertain of its intentions, is keeping very few groovers inside.  With light jackets and umbrellas at the ready, they are out walking and bustling around town, the middling weather hardly a challenge for those who have withstood flying tree limbs, drenching downpours and the gargling cries of windblown seagulls for the last few months.  No sir, we all know spring is right around the corner, and no milquetoast storm like this one is going to keep this good town down.

She's a Breeze

Traveling along the geography of my body, I note that the southern extremities are cool today while the northern are much warmer. I went for a walk at the beach this morning and got my old gray socks wet. Again. So, my feet got cold, too. Not so bad though. Not so bad.

The swell was up - has been up - lately, and the waves made a whomping boom every now and again as a wave hit the sand or bucked up against the rocks or cement ruins here and there. Nothing eventful. Rather, it was peaceful in a swishy sandy way. My shoes came away covered with sand and no matter how much I stomped them afterward on my walk home, the sand stayed put, covering the soles and sides, awaiting an opportunity to finally fall off once I was inside my home.

The summer breeze has been scurrying around busily lately. She's like an old aunt who has gotten past her inhibitions and proprieties and gets a good laugh lifting up skirts, tossing hats and sending napkins sailing. I walked with her yesterday, as a matter of fact, catching her coming into town on errands with her arms full of clouds and mist. She's an odd mixture of grace and whimsy, that old girl is, and I think she gets a laugh out of that.

We sat briefly on a bench downtown.

"Did you see those golfers out there on the ninth fairway?" she giggled. "Oh, I had such a laugh! One of them had himself all set up to swing and I just couldn't resist. I gusted! I love it when I gust! It reminds me of the old days. Oh my..." and her voice trailed off with a little sigh. A flag fluttered on a nearby pole. She looked at it with a distant, unfocused glance, made a shooing motion with her hand. The flag snapped and strained on its clips and the rope pinged against the metal pole. "Oh!" She looked away distractedly, brushed a gray shock of hair off her forehead and stood up briskly. "Let's go!" And we set off downhill again.

In her younger days, she could slip over the tops of hills and down their slopes, ruffling the grasses rather delicately with her fingertips. She would rustle through the tops of willows at the river's edge and have long talks with the sun as they walked together through the day. She was longer legged, it seemed, back in those days, and she was lighter on her feet, a fine dancer. You know, just give her a fine cliff face to whirl off of and she would set the evening off in such refreshing way. Everyone has always admired the summer breeze, especially since she could do just about any small invisible thing and make it look so easy.

But these days, in the middle of June on the coast, with the fog lying around all fat and slothful, she's been a bit out of sorts, and I think she feels like she's losing her grip on the waves. She's from a large family, all eccentric, of course, and she never had children. She's told me a few wild stories about the black sheep in her family, the tornadoes. She suspects they need anger management therapy, and she's staying far away from them. It's for the best, she says. Mostly, she spends her time shooing clouds to the inland valleys.

"You know, I'm thinking of taking some time off for a while, write a memoir or something. I've given it some thought. No one really wants me around right now. The sun and fog are at it again, as usual. He's just gotten so full of himself. It's such a shame!" She put her clouds down on the beach and they ran off to play, pushing the water's surface into tiny wavelets. "If you really want to know," and she leaned toward me conspiratorially, "I think the sun should just blaze, let herself go for a change and teach him a lesson. She's been too diplomatic with him. She told me about the Wagner the wind has been listening to, but he's up north for the season, so I don't expect him around here for a while. It's just the fog that's getting to her. She just needs to blaze!" Her eyes widened with the thought of it, and she smiled quickly. A passing tourist caught her suddenly frisky hat.

She was chatty, smiled a Mona Lisa smile as she called her little clouds back to her for a snack now and again, and waved at the tourists on the recreation trail. I enjoyed her company and wondered if she could convince the sun to blaze again. I asked her to try again and she agreed. She ruffled my hair with her hand, and it felt good.

After a while, we found ourselves silent and simply sitting peacefully on the rocky shoreline, and then both knew it was time to go home, take a nap. We said good-bye and parted for the afternoon, me to walk back home and she to wander out west over the water to watch the gulls and pelicans, give them a lift, help them soar. She lives out there this time of year, reclining at the end of the day with her stockinged feet up. Listen over on Asilomar Beach at the end of the day and you'll hear the puffing breaths of her satisfying sleep, steady and soft in the night.