No, I haven’t quit my day job and started a career in meteorology. And, you might well say, “Sure you know whether it’s going to rain this weekend now. It’s Friday!”
Again, no. I knew it was going to rain this weekend … a month ago.
That’s when I saw the first signs go up for the parish picnic that the nearby Catholic church holds each year. “Don’t plan any outdoor activities for June 11-13,” I told the mother. She got a quizzical look on her face, started to ask why, but then the answer came to her. “Ohhhhh,” she said knowingly.
I’d forgotten about my futuristic forecast until the other day when a truck hauling this drove past me.
A second later, I noticed another truck already in motion on the church lot, hauling this.
The mother forgot, too, until she saw this from our backyard the other night, all lit up. She had a what the hell moment before she recognized what it was! (Trees and buildings block most of the view.)
Every year, without fail, it rains on the picnic. Usually, it’s a real sogfest with at least two of the event’s three days getting heavy rain at least sporadically. Last year is the only one in recent memory where I can recall them getting by with hardly any rain at all.
I laughed when I saw the first extended forecast reaching to the weekend. Rain Friday. Rain Saturday. Rain Sunday. Of course!
Days later, that same forecast is still in place although they’ve slightly dialed back the rain for today 'til this afternoon and have it letting up from late tonight through Saturday afternoon. Then it's supposed to return through Sunday. Nice.
I cruised through the grounds during an evening walk this week. A group of carnies had gathered near the front of the church lot where a very crude conversation – the recounting of a strip club visit a few towns away when they were here last year – was in progress. There were women among them and I was embarrassed for them.
Meanwhile, poor St. Elizabeth stood just a few yards away. I think I saw her blush!