Small Mistake.

What you would think, if you were utterly out of things to think about and landed on this one, is that a boy who spends so much of his time worried about the weather would remember, before he went to bed on a Friday evening, to cover over the lawn mower, to roll the windows up on the truck. He knew what was coming. He'd seen the forecast. He always sees the forecast. Hell, friends and fans of weather, he sat out in it close to midnight and marveled at the warm wind blowing in out front of what surely, surely was the forecasted rain. This is the last warm night, he said.

Cut to: hard rain, hard wind, lightning, dog panting and nervous under the bed, our once-sleeping hero now down on hands and knees trying to coax the dog out for a little succor and comfort, the dog having no part of that, and then, sitting there on the floor, our hero remembers: Truck. Mower.

No easier way to climb back into bed knowing the exact size and shape of what kind of fool you are this time around.

Our October Saturday dawns hot—like May or June hot—and so wet it's a wonder we're dry inside. The upstairs windows are good and fogged over. We're not supposed to get much hotter than we are right now, so by this afternoon it'll feel more like it should, but for now all the instruments are fouled, all the readings wrong, and all the mowers and trucks are pretty goddamned wet. Welcome to whatever comes before we return to our regularly scheduled autumn, already in progress.