Rain, rain, rain: I don't mind!

People sometimes ask me what prompted the move from Minnesota to Oregon, although they usually don't say 'prompted.' To which I reply, the weather. That's an obvious one, but here it is: Nobody who hasn't experienced first-hand the fluttering tingles up the arm from shoveling snow so heavy it might as well be made of lead, hasn't got a clue.

People here talk about it being cold, when it's in the fifties, which is the golden age of winter weather. It's the Dick Clark, sock hop, and cherry phosphate of weather. It is, to beat this analogy into the unfrozen ground, the Eisenhower of meteorology. Back home, people talk about how exuberant they are about another impending ice-age, and the sorrow around their eyes speaks like tar deposits around an abandoned gas station. They fool absolutely nobody.

To add emphasis to my survivor status, the simplicity of 'seen the footage of the Metrodome roof collapsing?' Everybody has. I haven't watched it since it happened, because it's like watching a kindly old grandmother held at gunpoint while reciting Jabberwocky. It's just never going to make sense. So old people continue to keel over while shoveling a cat-sized path from their door to their Oldsmobile. Never smoked, drank, consorted with loose figures, and paid their taxes on time. That's a sign of dementia, refusing to take advantage of the final crumbs of social security and move to a place, any place will do, where the only risk of heart attack or stroke would happen at the margarita bar down in Cora Gables.

Oregonians talk about the weather, just as much as Minnesotans. They just don't know as many people who've skidded out on a narrow two-lane highway and hit a moose while screaming at WCCO's baffling inability to announce their school closing. I remember too many mornings spent at the bus stop, my toes seconds from amputation. For about a decade, I was the first and last to be picked up and dropped off, respectively, making my morning commute about as pleasant as getting a bath in a meat locker.

Sara's mother said it best: You don't have to shovel rain. Holy Great Lord of Hosts! Raise the rafters in praise! There are plenty of things I miss about being in Minnesota, but here's the deal: It's early November, and I just spent time on my patio outside. In two months, I will still be able to see greenery, instead of varying shades of basic brown. If it all gets too real, what with the drizzle, I'll buy brighter light bulbs and drink more, something that kind of, but never really worked back home.