The Mississippi “fall” weather brought a warm spell on Friday. We changed our attire to fit our needs, as the temperature spiked up to the 80s. We enjoyed that throwback to the warmer days, a little reminder by the weather like a conversation that didn’t end at goodbye, but kept on going instead. But being that this is Mississippi, we can’t have consistency, and on Saturday night, a storm front came.
It ripped that warm conversation apart and spewed a cold word with a downpour as a seriousness of intent. Overnight between Saturday and Sunday, we changed to our jackets and long sleeves. The weather here seems to enjoy cycling moods quite often. So much, in fact, that I believe we need to have a clinical diagnosis and prescription medicines administered.
Really, the weather acting like this only hurts itself and our relationship with it. It has the unreliable quality that makes us question motive at times.
She, the weather, was all that was good and pleasant on Friday night. She dressed like we should make a marble statue out of her, and we had great conversations with her at the bar. When she’s warm and welcoming, it makes the conversation we have with her feel like the most important one of our lives. I’m sure that if it wasn’t for last call, we would have talked with the weather until the sunrise darted over the eastern horizon.
We went through Saturday expecting the reception of the day before. We enjoyed the daylight hours, still reeling in the warm conversation from the night before. We even went back out to the bars in search of part two, but, we only got to observe her throwing a fit. She’s conflicted and in turmoil; the storm clouds rolled in fast from the west. We got driven inside by the downpour and the cold tone of her words.
By Sunday, the weather’s forgotten all about our Friday night joy. We met in the open air of the coffee shop, and our conversation was snipped and cold. She hadn’t the slightest warmth in her tone, and every time we spoke to her, she turned her head as if to ignore us.
The weather affects all aspects of life. When we meet that conversation in the morning outside the Union or in the Circle, the tone and the intensity of the weather follow us the entire day. It can be anxiety-inducing, blisteringly hot, prosaically chilly or a crisp cold and a bright sun mixing together. It affects our wardrobes, the foods we eat, the houses we live in and even our understanding of the seasons. The weather is a fickle thing at times, and there is no way to decipher her strategies.
She plays the role of both moderator and victor; admittance of partial subjection to her authority is probably the best path.
Dan Purdy is an English senior from Oxford.
