Whither The Weather

As I watched from the conservatory window, a serious martini in hand, the wind lashed at the pewtered panes while appearing to blow snow in every direction. This had been going on for some time, and was really the first significant storm of the New Year. Consuela, my gardener, was at my side, all excited. She was eager to put into action the new John Deere snowplow I had recently purchased. She would have to wait -- the force of the wind made plowing an exercise in futility.

"How long do you think all this will last?" she asked.

"Don't know," I replied. "That's the thing about weather. You never really know."

Consuela sighed, then said, "Well, I'll just check the machine anyway."

She departed. Now I knew full well that the snowplow was in perfect working order, but a passion for machinery was not to be denied. So off she went, and I was left pondering the nature of weather.

It is, I thought, no accident that weather is a great opening topic for conversation. No one really understands it, and hence every opinion can be considered correct. I mean, nothing will stop a conversation more dead in its tracks than a position put forward by someone who knows what they're talking about. And it is usually safe and not subject to vitriolic argument.

I say 'usually' because there was one time I got into a very awkward situation in a weather discussion.

The issue erupted at a dinner party given by my Chief Financial Officer, best known simply as W.D. There was lots of chit-chat over the bacon-wrapped hot shrimps and toasted Brie with sesame crackers, and all was going well. The problem occurred at the dinner table.

I had been seated next to the Archbishop of the diocese -- W.D., on a pro bono basis, helps with parish accounts -- and, being in good mood, decided not to discuss religion in any form. The weather, I thought. Always non-confrontational.

"Well, Your Grace, a fine sunny day today."

"It was indeed. God favours us every so often."

An inner voice at this point urged silence. But Roman Law states that silence gives consent, as Cicero tells us: silentio te consentire. I simply found it too difficult to remain silent.

"God and the weather," I replied. "A close relationship there. In fact, I would posit that weather started the whole religious thing."

"Your meaning?" replied the Archbishop, suspicion in his voice. My atheistic tendencies were not exactly a secret.

"Just consider. Way back when, the weather would terrify, and it is not difficult to see that the power of storms, floods and fires were under the control of powerful forces, the gods and goddesses of the time. Zeus and his thunderbolts, Loki and his control of fire, Tibetan moon festivals, and, given some research, the minor storm god in Judea that became Judaism. All understandable. And then it all went wrong."

The Archbishop took a good gulp of Chardonnay, then asked, "How so?"

"Well, as science began to explain how storms, floods and fire were all interconnected with weather patterns, you would expect that belief in imaginary beings would fade. It didn't. There was simply too much to be gained -- power, prestige, even money -- in keeping the whole thing going. Not only that, but various beliefs began to clash, and are still clashing. For instance, the Middle East --"

But the Archbishop had had enough, and went to W.D. to make his excuses, citing an urgent diocese issue in need of resolution. W.D. rolled his eyes at me, but I simply shrugged. It was his seating arrangement, not mine.

So once again I was confronted with the fact that emotions and ideas follow beliefs, and that religion will be with us for some time. Beliefs do not change quickly, and there are sometimes storms we cannot......weather.