My little weather

In the east, the storms have names. Ernesto is on his way. He's a Spanish storm prone to light destruction and searing bouts of depression. He's recognizable by the tears he cries. The weathermen all hail Ernesto. Ernesto will affect us all, they say. Especially our ratings, they don't say. Storms like him are big news. Here the storms take their time in coming. They plot and plod, spinning around those beady eyes and leaving a trail of fallen branches. We name them because we have time to name them. They aren't our friends, more acquaintances really. Freaks of nature, we claim behind their backs as we all track his progress eagerly on TV and radio and Internet. Even through our insults, we build a relationship with the storm. We introduce him to the family. We think about him while we purchase toilet paper and SPAM. We know him. Maybe we fear him. We definitely talk about him. Ernesto was quiet. I never would have expected this.

In the middle, storms are nameless. They answer to cyclone and tornado. The east may think this reflects a lack of imagination. What many in the middle gain during commutes, they lose in a storm. Proper names and waiting periods give way to green skies and the swirling winds. It's not a lack of interest that prevents naming convention. It's a lack of time. Storms in the middle are lust and raw energy. They are bumping against a bathroom stall, grunting, destroying. They are singular. They are in the moment. Storms in the middle sneak in, blow by, and leave us wondering where that came from. We remember them, but in a vague way, in a numbered way. That tornado in '86. The big one in '99. Storms in the middle are no less personal, they're just less personal to so many people. They don't give us a chance to talk about them until they are gone. It's like a tornado hit this place.

Storms in the west are a mystery to me. They seem to occur less frequently. In the west, mother nature is both more open with her emotions and more reserved. In some places, she doesn't allow them to build up inside and then come out in a rush of power and anger. She releases them daily with a sprinkling of rain and a mixture of sunshine and clouds. In other places, she withholds the emotions all together. She cries no tears and we sweat, but more figuratively than literally because it's all so dry. Of course, she has her moments, lightning and thunder and rain that still make children cower, but they seem to lack the magnitude found in the middle and the east. She makes up for this in other ways. Fires, earthquakes, droughts, she is a complicated woman.

Meanwhile, Ernesto stops at the beach for a frozen daquiri, a ride on the waves, and a desperate search for somewhere to let out his frustrations. Ernesto is on his way.