A Rainy Day in Seattle

There was once a comedian who remarked on the scenery in Iowa. Jokingly, he said "The scenery is always changing in Iowa....sometimes the corn is on the left, and sometimes it's on the right."

For me, its similar in Seattle. The scenery is always changing. Sometimes the clouds are light grey, sometimes dark, sometimes high and sometimes low. Well yesterday was one of those Northwestern days where the clouds were so high and omnipresent that they ceased to look like clouds. They simply washed the sky of its blue and left a dull grey, like the color of the brush wash after watercolor. It wasn't until the Sun began to sink to the edge of the Olympics did we get some color in the sky. A sneaking layer of yellow illuminated some depth in the clouds. Layers became visible and one could see the mountains draped (could one say immodestly?) with a combination of late evening Sun, snow and smoky cloud. Here and there, rocky face showing dark over the water. On my way back home from my run this scene popped in and out of view as I made my way past residential blocks. Each time I came to an intersection the roadway offered a narrow vista onto the expansive mountains and Sound.

It hadn't been like this earlier in the day. When I picked up my little sister from school. An interesting affair in itself. I had been through this all before. Going to Catholic school until college I was all too familiar with the white/navy scheme of school uniform. Yet, it was interesting viewing that uniformed crowd (chaos dressed in order). Having only really interacted with my sister and none others anywhere around her age group I found it startling seeing all sorts school aged children. I could no longer accurately gauge how big my sister should be in this mix. There were the older children, the sixth graders, I could rule out...but other than that, it seemed even the preschoolers could've been her. I remember her that size, it wasn't that long ago, maybe she's still that small. I knew, standing there with an assortment of the moms of Seattle suburbia (and a few dads), that she would need to pick out me, because I was hopeless to pick out her.

Luckily, she ran right toward me, bounding with her pink backpack slapping her on the back. She promptly forgot about anything and everything around her and we sidestepped front hoods and opening hatchbacks to our car. I had been told this was an extra special deal for her (being picked up by her brother) and that I needed to do something special for her. Which, as often happens with me, I got all sentimental about and dreamed of all the fun we'd have when I picked her up, but then, sitting in the car waiting to leave the parish parking lot, I got extremely tired and didn't feel like doing anything at all. I couldn't muster the excitement to even excitedly engage her in conversation. When she replied, "Goooooood" to my question about her school day, I could tell she wasn't interested in talking about and I simply let the conversation go entirely.

I decided to drive her to get ice cream and then onward to throw rocks on the beach. She dropped an oh so subtle six year old hint that "Mom, one time, let me get two flavors of ice cream in the same dish". I responded, "That must have been special" to which she assured me that it had occurred on the most normal of days. I conceded, "Some times, that Mom is just nice." It was then, that I felt cornered by my six year old sister. I HAD to give her two flavors. She chose Lime Daiquiri Ice and just plain Daiquiri Ice (there isn't much difference I'm guessing. I had Jamocha in a waffle cone.

On our way to the beach, I saw a sign for the town park. I turned around and asked, Park or Beach? And she chose park (I would've chosen beach). This park, "is not new to me" she said as I dodged traffic opening my door. Upon leaving the park, she looked for any diversion. Anything to keep her from going home. And when I had almost got her to the car, she took off running, shouting over her shoulder to me, "Let's chase the crows!" So Lilly chased the crows and I chased Lilly. I was slightly more successful than she was, but we're not really keeping track.

I didn't weed the rose garden with her like I said we would when we got home. I left her with her mother and went for my run. That's when I got to see the Olympics crowned in gold. As I slipped behind another block of houses I recalled all the people who had recently tried to convince me that "it truly is really nice here" or half-hearted "its too bad you don't like Seattle"s, I almost admitted to myself, in lieu of this mountain scene that it wasn't so bad, or maybe I'd like it. But caught myself quickly, reminding myself that never had I truly thought it wasn't beautiful here...it's just only beautiful 10% of the time. Which for me, it would need to be about seven and half times that. I like thinking of mountains as having their different personalities. I love the mountains of Southern California. Their rounded edges, in early spring covered with a soft fuzz that turns to amber brown in the summer and looks like the belly of a golden labrador. The dry desert flora forcing its way into the cracks of sandy granite or sandstone (I'm no geologist). And how, in Los Angeles, they act as border guards against the ever spreading human habitation. Making it look as though, someone spilled a glass full of concrete, whirling and eddying around central hills and finally coming to a stop at the foot of Mount Baldy and the mountains to the south. Looking out east and seeing the gateway to the desert cities, through which the 10 threads warily through a windtunnel. Yes, there's something to these desert mountains.

And their northern brethren are of a completely different ilk. Theirs is a hard nosed life of cold bitter wind. Clouds snagging on their spindly noses and heads. Scarred and jagged. They remind me of figures hunched in dark coats with blanched faces hunkered down with their backs to the wind and their heads sitting down in their shoulders. The smoky haze that lingers above them is less due to precipitation but the steady rise of the mountains' cigarettes, an effort to stay warm. Chain smokers they are, all standing in a row. I was going to weed the rose garden today then. But, today, it's raining.

I'll go running. That doesn't stop for the rain. But since picking it back up, I've found that my fitness forces my pace to slow to the extent where I get bored. I can't speed up or I won't last the run. But running this slowly, defeats even the purpose of thinking. I can normally think myself silly when I run and therefore lose track of a couple clock rotations. But that thought is always tempered with fatigue. Fatigue keeps my thought fresh and interesting since it becomes a task to simply remember what I've thought. And once I get so tired, I just stop thinking and black out. But this, this getting back in shape business. It's utterly boring. However, the alternative is simply unacceptable.