It rained today – of course the ground was going to get soaked if I’d watered the yard the night before.

It was just enough to send me scurrying to figure out where I’d stashed the umbrellas and enough that Boots got a break from getting to school under  his own steam when I decided to drive. No, it wasn’t really raining that hard. But I hate the smell of reconstituted hair spray in the morning.

And it was enough to satisfy Big Guy’s weather lust, because he’s been feeling deprived of real weather since a docent at the air museum showed him a plane’s weather radar system.

If we didn’t live in California, Big Guy already would have turned into one of those people, the type who remain riveted to the Weather Channel, watching storms inch around the globe.

Instead, he’s had to settle with monitoring the local forecast online and hoping something will happen. In between, he peppers me with questions about life in the land of real weather, where storms are an afternoon ritual, hurricanes land occasionally and blizzards knock out power and schools for days.

The winter stories are his favorites. “Oh, that sounds soooo nice!” I didn’t put reality between him and his fantasy. “I’d like snow a lot better if it weren’t so cold,” he complained after his one encounter.

I’d like snow a lot better if it lived up to its image of fluffy white fun created just for our enjoyment, of days frolicking in the meadow building snowmen, of nights cozy by the fire.

Instead, wonderland turns dingy gray after a day or so and you spend an hour shoveling out your car only to have a snowplow bury it minutes after you finish.

That’s if the snow even arrives. My favorite blizzard as a child was when the governor panicked based on mere forecast and schools closed early. We can home and relayed cords of firewood into the basement so we could survive the storm of the century. The storm that never came.

That’s the other problem with living in the land of unpredictable weather. You can hear doom and gloom forecasts for days. You can check flashlights and track down  candles. You can chuckle as stores sell out of bread, milk and bottled water.

And after all that … nothing. But not always. Sometimes you’ll wind up gazing out the windows at work late one night, watching hurricane winds whip parking-lot lights around like they’re drinking straws. You’ll listen to reports of downed power lines across major through fares and wonder how you’re going to get home.

You’ll go days without power and be happy you at least have running water.

Give me the dull familiarity of California’s Central Valley any time.

From November to March, you’ll have fog and rain punctuated by an occasional ray of sunshine only after you’re stir crazy from staring at gray skies day in, day out. Once in a while, it will be cold enough overnight that you’ll have to scrape car windows in the morning.

From May to September, you’ll bake in 100-degree heat, but at least you won’t swelter. Yes,  dry heat is different. I’ve never endured a July 4th here that’s been so miserable you stick your head out the door only long enough to turn the steaks on the grill.

October and April are reasonable – months you look forward to for the break on utilities bills.

I’ll all take that if the choice is between foreseeable extremes and “will it or won’t it hit” hurricanes and blizzards.

Even if we do have a chilly June downpour once every 10 years that gives the guys a free ride to school. At least I didn’t have to light candles and fill buckets of water.

Copyright 2009 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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