Winter

In my neck of the woods the months from November through April are filled with the rumblings of discontent.  I, myself, rather enjoy a good snowstorm although this is something I generally keep to myself because complaining about the weather is a talent most Ohioans develop beginning at age three.  Whether it's rain, sleet, snow, ice, or fog, the winter months are filled to abundance with opportunities to hone one's repertoire of sarcastic commentary.  Even the occasional glimpse of sun lends itself to "run get the camera" or "Grandpa what's that yellow ball?" statements.

This winter was richer than most in its variety of meteorologic violence.  We enjoyed a mud-brown Christmas which, rather than producing thanksgiving for un-delayed flights to visit the relatives, launched a volley of grumbling about the stark ugliness of frigid grime involved in a snow-less Christmas.  We then received repeated, heavy snowfalls giving us opportunities for whining about the driveways which needed plowing and the hazards of road conditions.  The irony of this?  If it's too dangerous to be on the road why does one need to plow the driveway?

Falling moisture at temperatures barely in the freezing vicinity proved to be worse yet.  Wetness turned to ice causing trees to snap under the weight, thus leading to power outages which prevented access to Facebook - the most popular forum in town for voicing ones grievances from everything to our current weight to the state of the nation.

Then the rains came in earnest and with them, warm temperatures which caused the snow to melt so rapidly that floods ensued throughout the state.  Ark jokes abounded and I'll admit to a few of them myself.

So why is complaining about the weather so universal?  And why do most of us, whether we are honest enough to admit it or not, find the rare and cheerful optimist so annoying?  Why, instead of voicing our gratefulness at the warmth of our houses or the hot chocolate we're swilling, do we choose to gripe about the elements?

Bemoaning the weather is an art in and of itself. The weather is something none of us can control, nor predict with anything greater than occasional accuracy. No letter is complete without a full report of current conditions, along with the writer's analysis.  Holding forth on the unfairness of our climate without acknowledging the obvious fact that we choose where we live is a cathartic outlet with which we entertain ourselves during the long, dreary months of our incarceration.  It brings everyone together, no matter our race, creed, political party or lack thereof.  It sees us through until the first daffodil and crocus poke through the ground to remind us there is life outside the confines of our individual abodes.  The lonely optimist waxing forth artificially on the joys of winter feels indefinably bereft in his solitary cocoon of unreality, outside the circle of gleeful, acerbic wit.

With each new morning a glance out the window provides new material for venting our frustrations, most of which probably have nothing to do with the weather.