“It’s going to get cold,” a coworker said at lunch today. He was looking at the cirrus clouds high over Houston. I remember Mike saying exactly the same thing when we were working together long ago. The clouds are a sure sign of an impending cold front, although “cold” is a relative term. In this case it means lows in the forties.
We have basically two seasons in Houston: summer and not-summer. Not-summer tends to be pretty nice, if you don’t mind the high occasionally topping out in the eighties.
November is one of our best weather months. Last weekend I planted a winter garden, my reward for surviving summer (not that I was here all that much). Mike and I had a tradition of watching “Fargo” when summer laid us particularly low. Seeing Bill Macy chip ice off his windshield in a deserted snowy parking lot and knowing we weren’t going to have to do the same in six months’ time always made us feel better.
This lovely little haiku appeared on the weather page of the Houston Chronicle a week or two back. It sums up this time of year perfectly:
Wind blows, front comes in
I open the windows, and
can hear Angels sing