Looking out my Backyard: Snivel. Whine. Foiled again

I know better. I set myself up to fail. All the signs pointed to early rain. I jumped in with both feet and gleefully shouted to everybody I know, “This year the rains will come early in June. What a wonderful wet year we will have.” Ha.

I know better. Sure, it rains in summer. Late June when we are lucky, July, August, and rains dribble off in September. The rest of the year is bone dry and that is easy and safe to predict.

If I really wanted to be right, and who doesn’t like being right, I would have shut my mouth until we actually had more than one freak storm. But all the signs pointed to a wet year while the weather hit the wall and turned left.

The cicadas began singing the end of April instead of the end of May. The elders in the community lifted their faces, “Ah, the way it used to be.” The black-bellied whistling ducks returned. The yellow rain birds came and built their fanciful, conical nests and planted eggs. The white bedsheet butterflies are here. Iguanas are hitting my yard for a free salad bar, despite Lola’s vigilance. Bugs are trying to get in the house. All the signs of rain imminent.

Every morning as well as late evening, I could stand outside and smell the rain. It had to be raining somewhere. Oh, yeah, Montana. The world turned upside down.

I do know that the only way to safely predict weather is to stand outside and say what one finds at the moment. Today, sunshine, blue skies forever, 105 F in the shade, 98% humidity. And when I go to my computer and check officially, same day after day after day, 105 F, tomorrow 106, forever and ever, amen.

I never was a good prognosticator. If I applied for the position of oracle, I’d be turned down flat with laughter. Whatever I were to prophesy, expect the opposite.

Well, nothing to do but accept what I cannot change and deal with the heat and dust as best I can. Lola and I take our morning walk at 6:30. Back at the house, I proceed with morning chores and self-appointed tasks of the day. For example, today, by 10:00 I had the floors mopped and a mango pie in the oven, a rhubarb pie on the counter waiting to bake. As hot as it is, the oven heat won’t make a lick of difference.

A length of gauzy cotton fabric lay spread out on my table, ready to cut for a blouse, but I had to put it away, the red, orange and yellow colors too hot to contemplate.

And so each day goes, active chores done by noon. My afternoons, I revolve from patio to back yard beneath the jacaranda, to the side yard seating area I built last year, following each bit of breeze.

Despite my failures, despite my lousy reputation, I have a new prediction. It will never rain again. Having said that, I’m going to organize a neighborhood picnic. Iguanas welcome.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].