RAIN, SNOW, AND THE DEFINITION OF IRONY

Autumn is a crazy time here in the Northeast section of America.  It has been cold ... pretty cold ... not ridiculously cold yet except for the few windy days that dropped wind chills into some low numbers.  But still -- cold enough to bring in more seasonable (slightly icy and chilly) fall temperatures.

This is why, sitting at the kitchen table, my mind cannot and will not accept that we are surrounded by thunder and lightning.  I check the radar on my phone.  This is no mere fall squall; this is a massive storm about a hundred miles long, and it is marching across Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine, and Rhode Island like a relentless and unmerciful onslaught of invaders.  The storm has some hook patterns to the south, and it is spawning tornado-like activity.

Within mere minutes, the storm has turned brutal.  The house shakes and rumbles and stutters on its stone foundation once ... twice ... three times ... four times.  Just when I think the walls might implode, the storm moves on.  It is, by far, the worst thunderstorm of the entire season from spring until now.

The following morning I drive to work through the state forest. The damage doesn't seem too bad considering a lightning strike in a nearby town destroyed an entire church.  The skyline is brightening slightly, but it is obvious more rain is due from the low hanging, gray-blue clouds.  I park my car and walk toward the back entrance by the janitorial staff's shed.

As I turn the corner I am greeted by two snowblowers.

I wonder if this is the definition of irony.  Nah.  It's New England.  Thunderstorm one minute; snow squall the next.  I guess it's time to put away my flip-flops after all and change over to my boots, regardless of what Mother Nature serves us the evening prior.