Running for roses

Everyone knows roses don't grow in our region during the first part of May.

I am 100 years younger than the Kentucky Derby.

Also on May third, as the first Saturday in May, our wedding anniversary number five, returned full circle in only partial time, thanks to leap year. Nuptials (sounds like a drink made of nectar, Latin and plain-wedding-meaning as it may be) were held in the Loose Park rose garden, as I have previously disclosed, and while some people were missing their favorite gambling day, some of us were going at it full-force.

So, there were no roses, which is why I wonder about how much further south Kentucky's blue grass really grows; probably, the wreath is imported or grown under glass. Five years ago, though, there was a tornado, which followed our day, May 3, which itself was much like bits and pieces of this week's weather, together it equaled perfection.

Today, there were some minor (esp. compared to what happened across Missouri "back then") tornadoes, specifically, this evening, all in time, blessed be, to interfere with Ugly Betty and LOST. We, the married us, don't see how all humanity needs a pop-science lesson in panic every time it rains within 100 miles of our homes. I used to enjoy storms for having just enough danger in them to make life seem delicious — plenty of my bones are from the 19th century, and they thrill to darkness, drama, and danger. (They do not get excited about alliteration as much.)

But nowadays, I feel like I am watching someone die when there are storms, while I wait out the newscaster "weathergasm," as my friend calls it, immobilized and depressed, forced to think about imminent random doom, detached from my pacifier's usual programming and utterly unable to even enjoy the lovely clouds or the booms.

The piece de la résistance: when our local sirens started blaring — far longer* than any I can recall in real life, even when there was an actual tornado ripping through east campus in Columbia, Missouri, in 1997 or so — but thus were declared by weathercasters to be flung o'er the entire county, mere noise to be disregarded in central urbanland, and so, well, there is no need to point out any irony or emotion.

I strive so hard not to have emotion.

Happy birthday to Mom.

*yes, than any single "seek shelter" shout from my childhood, when we used to descend to the basement semi-religiously, because my mom took such things seriously and because back then the sirens were obviously more accurate.