Well, it’s just about summertime and that means I have even less of an idea of what to expect.

Let’s just put it this way: for those of you who still doubt the realty of worldwide climate change, I no longer fear you.  The nonstop thunderstorms we have had here in Bend, Oregon have doused your flaming torches and rusted your pitchforks.  Last week, in the middle of June, no less, snowplows were ordered to the south end of town to scoop up the six inches of hail. 

Really.

This time of year also sees many traveling including Beloved Son and Beloved Daughter.  They and 183 of their closest friends are part of a high school student band group going on tour to Europe.  Considering they were raised by a more-than-slightly anal mother who over-packed for every occasion, I expect my daughter to cram four of everything into a mini-backpack and then frantically email me beginning on Day 5 to Fed Ex clean underwear to the country they just left.  My son will probably show up without every piece of his baritone sax forcing him to hum loudly during his part and will only have three socks, one of which will be black, so on days they are required to wear formal performance attire, he will have to hop.

Beloved Daughter is one of 30 flutes and when they play Stars and Stripes Forever they should trill high enough to shatter the stained-glass window of Notre Dame.  Beloved Son is one of 13 baritone saxophones and when they hit a low “A” in unison, they should generate sufficient seismic activity to start an avalanche capable of wiping out Innsbruck.

If you are a typical American, you are probably thinking “Where’s Innsbruck?”  Not to be insulting but when it comes to science of any genre, be it planetary sciences, climatology or geography, we, as a country, generally suck.

We’re not all total nimrods.  Here on the west coast, most of us know more than one language.  We can usually speak English although mostly incorrectly and without proper syntax.  Some of us know Spanish although Beloved Spouse drives our fluent-speaking daughter quite mad with his mangling of certain words such as caballero and I still sometimes refer to mole sauce as a kind of gravy made out of the little animal that burrows underground.  I also have trouble with Justice Sonia Sotomayor’s name.

Some of us know a little Japanese although it’s usually limited to menu items and “domo arigato” because we like the Styx song Mr. Roboto.  I know it’s an old song but here in the Pacific Northwest we still wear Birkenstocks and drink massive amounts of caffeine-laced drinks in order to stay awake during all the unexpected rain.

Some of us multi-linguists are also quite conversant in Dude.  As in: “Duuuuuuude (two syllables minimum and lasting at least 30 seconds long) you spilled your espresso on my Birkenstocks.  Kewl.” 

We also have many tourists come here to Bend and not only to see snowplows shovel hail in June.  We have a wonderful river through town, the Deschutes (as in the Deschutes and the Ladders—that’s just wonderfully funny in a thigh-slapping sort of way when you’re hopped up on caffeine) and we use it a lot.  The part that goes through town has a gentle current and folks kayak and float on various devices past puzzled geese and annoyed ducks.  The locals call the tourists who do this “lobster people” because they choose to come here to the high desert, completely forgetting the high altitude and low ozone layer (see planetary sciences above) put on minimum clothing on winter-flabby bodies to just “get a little sun” while they bob in the water and by 2:00 or so, they are decidedly crimson.  By the end of the day it’s like a reunion of the Ruby-Red Jabba the Hutt family.  We sit in the shade and laugh at them while we sip our microbrews trying to get our heart rates back down to double digits after spending the morning downing espresso shots. 

Well, I have exciting plans of my own this season.  While the kids are gone, I plan on getting the carpets cleaned.   Too many espresso stains.