Let's Talk About the Weather

It is always interesting living in another country, even if its only for a few months.  Weather patterns are never like they are at home.  This is especially true in the Middle East.

I remember when we first moved to North Carolina from New York.  Somehow, we departed NY in a snow storm and arrived in one when we reached Willow Spring, NC.  However, once that passed I was astounded by the number of clear, sunny days.  Whatever the ratio of cloudy to sunny days was in Cortland, NY, that ratio was reversed in NC.  True, we don't get four traditional seasons where we live, but winter does not last from October to April either.

I remember being in Kuwait was in 2005 on my way home from Baghdad, Iraq. The wind was relentless.  The heat was incredible at 120*-130*.  It felt like someone was holding a hair dryer to your face.  The place favors those who know how to avoid imposing weather.

After two months in Kuwait the chilly nights are behind us and the locals all acknowledge that the heat will come after the rains.  Rains? It has only drizzled here on occasion.  There hasn't been any real rain to speak of.  Until the other day.  The other day the skies opened up and drenched the base.  Now I know why we have large drainage ditches built. 

The wind is a daily factor.  It is strong enough to push me on my bike to work or push from getting back to the CHU in the evening.  The odd thing is that the wind is Omni-directional; some days it blows from the south and other days it blows from the west or north. 

The phase here is, "summer's coming" in sarcastic reference to The Game of Thrones.  It won't be long now.

Burning for Rodney

Rodney Brown smoked cigars.  I know this about my grandfather because I have faint memories of him as a child.  He would have a big Churchill in his mouth as a layer of smoke sat in the TV room of the house on Cromwell Hill Road in Monroe, NY.  I know it because my dad told me that when he got caught smoking cigarettes as a kid he was forced to smoke one of his dad’s cigars.  I know it because of the few things left to me from him – through my dad – is his humidor, a beautiful wood box, a retirement gift from the New York State Police.  That heirloom sits on my dresser, full of ticket stubs, cards, old photos, and memories from my life.  Also on my dresser is my humidor, the one Lisa got me as a present for battalion command. 

I smoke the occasional cigar.  Usually I enjoy a glass of bourbon with it.  It is, admittedly, the most machismo thing I do. 

Tonight I sat in the cool Kuwaiti night enjoying a cigar. As tendrils of gray smoke floated away from me I thought about Rodney.  Perhaps I channel him just a bit when I smoke. Rodney, a gruff, old, cantankerous man who was in World War I, served in the State Police for thirty years, and ran the family business until he died. 

I'd love to talk to him. I have no idea what we’d talk about if we could but I am sure we’d do it over a cigar and a drink or two.