By Tobin Barnes
Stick with me. This is eventually going to lead to Chuck. So here goes:
Other night, lightening and thunder woke me up about three o’clock. That’s always fairly shocking. Almost like a nightmare. Even more shocking when it’s the end of March.
But the ensuing rain was welcome. And not just because we really need it here in western SoDak. I like rain anytime. Don’t get enough of it. I’ve always liked rainy days.
I don’t even mind rainy Saturdays. Good things must have happened to me on rainy Saturdays when I was a kid. Can’t remember any of them, but that’s one explanation.
Another might be genetic. Perhaps appreciation for gray, drizzly, dreary days has been inbred—northern European roots and all. Cold, gray, and soggy for untold generations...don’t know any other way to react than to be happy about it.
Sometimes I think I’m living in the wrong part of the country. Be better off in the Pacific Northwest with rain much of the year—Seattle, Tacoma—or in nice and cool northern California—San Francisco.
But then maybe a lot of what I like would be too much.
Mark Twain said the coldest winter he ever spent was summer in San Francisco. That’s a great ironic twist on words, but I know what he’s talking about. I’ve been there in the summertime.
Sometimes during the day, it was downright cold. Wet, chills-to-the-bone cold. Weird for July.
I still enjoyed the place, though. But again, that’s me.
From what I understand, other times of the year can be pretty gray and chilly, too. Except in the fall. That’s when they supposedly get their nice weather.
But to heck with the fall, I’m going back again this spring. Not sure it’s a recommended time. It might be gray and wet and dreary. Right up my alley...maybe. We’ll see.
I’m going with Chuck. A lot of people wouldn’t recommend that either, if’n they know Chuck. Of course, our wives are going along, too, and that will deflect the impact somewhat. Still, Chuck is necessarily going to be the focal point of the trip. In other words, if Chuck is with you, you never forget he’s there.
Chuck says we’re brothers-in-law because our wives are sisters. I always maintain that’s more of a coincidence than any kind of family bond.
But don’t get me wrong. I like Chuck. Kinda like a moth drawn to a flame.
I’ve talked about Chuck many times before.
He’s the guy we invited to an anniversary party of ours at a restaurant. He ordered two entrees—half a chicken and a slab of ribs. My brother, who was there also, thought Chuck was a nut. Other people do, too.
He’s the guy the police were looking for in Breckenridge, Colorado. The APB told the cops to look for a red-haired adult male wearing an orange hospital shirt that said “Bellevue Psychiatric Ward” on the back. What he was wearing was the factual part. The rest was an innocent mix up, mostly.
He’s the guy who when I visited his house took me over to his new art print hung on the wall. Then he took it off the nail and showed me the back side. The price sticker was still on it. Said “$400.” I said “Wow!”, not realizing he was such an art lover. He said, “I added another zero.”
Chuck’s got the gift of gab. He’s a little-old-lady magnet at weddings and funerals. I’m not that big a talker myself. This juxtaposition of him and me can work pretty well for a few hours. But this San Francisco trip’s gonna last five days. I could be a basket case by the end of it.
Yeah, so here’s the deal. I like rainy days, but do I like a ton of rainy days? And I like Chuck, but do I like a ton of Chuck.
Those are both good questions.
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