The day those fucks flew hijacked planes into shit… featured warm temperatures, and a crystal-clear, deep blue sky. As far as the weather is concerned, it was as close to perfect as ever (except, of course for all the fucked-upped-ness). On that day, being so close to Dulles Airport, it was eerily silent after every flight was cancelled, and weird to look up into that royal sky and see no planes… only dissipating con-trails-cum-cirrus. Even worse, how could something so horrible happen on a day so close to perfect?
September in Northern Virginia is better than April/May, because—given the similar temperatures—everything is still alive. In spring, things are only beginning to come back from the winter dead. That’s nice in itself, but nothing is “lush” yet. In autumn (or thereabouts), things haven’t yet died, or changed colors (a different subject altogether); the skies are clearer, and the ingression of cooler temperatures is a relief after July/August hell.
Again, this September has been awesome. Hurricane Isabel will ruin things for a couple of days, but this weekend is supposed to be partly cloudy, highs in the mid 70s, 10% chance of precipitation. Perfect weather for my good friend, Carol’s, birthday cookout.
Wait a second… moving here from Florida was supposed to absolve me from all hurricane preparation responsibilities, wasn’t it?