I heard yesterday that San Francisco is expecting snow this weekend. I enjoyed imagining the predictable chaos: Massive gridlock. Prii smash into Passats (four days ago, Toyota, using the might of its international team of engineers and wordsmiths, finally decided how to pluralize Prius). Skinny vanilla lattes spill across khaki pants and pre-faded jeans. Kids revolt against the city, armed with snowballs and runny noses. Snowmen fornicate in the streets as Vespa’s slip and slide by.
The sun woke me up the next morning. No sign of a North Coast snow flurry. I crawled out of bed, brewed some coffee, brushed my teeth, and dressed for an early run. Walking outside was like stepping into a freezer. It took my breath away. A big black cloud loomed over the marsh. Better start moving. The sky began to drizzle as the trail neared. The drizzle turned to hail. The hail turned to snow. Large, white, dry flakes of snow! I could hardly believe it. I zoned out while watching snow fall into the ocean. Away from the city, running through trails, it felt as though home had come to visit. I thought of my brother, snowed in with the kiddos. I imagined his reaction when our parents brought me home for the first time. What a strange thing, to meet a sibling – your partner in crime, your alibi, your apprentice, your sidekick for life. I thought of my parents. My Dad painting in his studio, next to a space-heater, Van Morrison singing out of key. My mom baking cupcakes and chatting with Heather while Bailey snores on the couch.
My stomach began to rumble. My thoughts turned to breakfast as the rain returned. I caught site of a burned out hippie peeing behind bushes, bringing me back to Earth, back to Arcata. Nevada County, thanks for the visit. Come back anytime.
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