The Cruellest Month

My very literate friends will immediately recognize the line from “The Waste Land.” T.S. Elliot began his epic poem with the line “April is the cruellest month, breeding. . .” With all due respect to the great poet, he must never have visited lakeside, for here all know that May, not April, is the cruellest month.

Now in most of the rest of the world, if you ask for a “bad-weather month” you might likely receive December or January in temperate climes, maybe August in tropical ones. Most of the Northern Hemisphere is quite nice and Spring-like in May, the Southern likewise Fall-ish. Lakeside is famous–even if erroneously so, since National Geographic magazine NEVER called it the second best climate in the world–for having great weather. And that much is true. But among all those sunny, dry, comfortable months, May stands out as the worst.

You see, May is the last full month of the dry season. We have not seen measurable precipitation since October, which is the norm. June will herald the arrival of the rainy season, not to be confused with a monsoon. Rather, here it is simply an acknowledgement that it will rain. After seven months without it, it is always welcome. People wander outside during the first real rainstorm just to feel it, much as the MesoAmericans must have with great thanksgiving. No more human sacrifices, though. There might have been a day in those seven months with a shower; for example, the day before yesterday we had a few drops for a few seconds. But that is not rainfall. It was more like what you’d expect if you turn on your yard sprinkler and realize it’s aimed directly at you. Splash, and then gone.

The mountains are uniformly brown, with a splotch of green here and there, from some uniquely-evolved native plant or tree which resists nature’s regulatory palette. The yards and the gardens remain green with an explosion of well-watered and cared-for flora. There is an omnipresent thin coat of dust which settles on all horizontal surfaces, and which magically recreates itself after each sweeping/cleaning. Wearing white or black pants is a newbie’s mistake.

May is the hottest month lakeside. Our average daily high temperature is 85° Fahrenheit, with a low of 60°. May stretches that high into the mid-90s. Now it’s true that temperature is for full sun exposure in the middle of the afternoon, which is why the culture has a siesta: only mad dogs and Gringos go out in the noonday Sun, as it were. And it’s also true the temperature moderates quickly down to a comfortably sleepy level by early evening.

You’re reading this and thinking, “Pat, you’re whining” and you’re right. We are spoiled by a great climate, or as I prefer to say, we just don’t have weather here. Which makes the few negatives stand out all the more. I have transitioned into a local for climatic purposes. I still use Fahrenheit over Celsius, but I swear that the metric measurement for temperature is superior. Why? Because there is no reason for temperatures below zero. We should just stop at 0° Celsius and say, “enough, it’s too cold, stop measuring it.” I haven’t taken to wearing gloves and ski jackets below 6o° as the Mexicans do, but I can see it in my future.

Therefore May is the perfect month to venture out of the slightly uncomfortable paradise at lakeside to the far ends of the globe. Most of the United States is lovely now, although there is the occasional hail of bullets. Europe is in shoulder season and at bargain prices. Heck, even Canada has ice-free roads (for a day or two).

May also heralds the departure of the snowbirds, those semi-annual visitors from up north, who begin returning home in April and finish up in May, leaving us year-round expats with time to savor unclogged roads and restaurant visits without reservations. Like the rain, after seven months we’ll even miss them and want them back!

I admit there is something magical about the four seasons as one experiences them in northern climes. Spring is especially welcome, what with the signs of new life. But June and the rainy season play a similar role here: it is a different world once the rains come. They are eagerly anticipated. Local legend has it that once the rainbirds (aka cicadas) start singing, the rains will come too. Some overly-eager (or is it literal) types compete to announce the rainbirds’ song. Perhaps they confuse correlation with causation. We did have dark clouds, wind, and a few drops the other day, and the rainbirds are giving tinnitus a run for its money.

Or as Eliot later wrote,

Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain.