the times they are a-changin'

Cue Bob Dylan. If the times are not changing, at least the weather is.

I have spent the last few days writing about the hubris of a certain New York politician -- who just as easily could be an Idaho politician -- or a star athlete. And I think I am getting my own payback -- even if it is in small change.

I have been bragging about our early spring this year. The font is barely off the tips of my fingers, and we are holding an open casting for a remake of Genesis 7. I started to draft a posting earlier today, but out on the lawn there arose such a clatter that I suspected Saint Nick and 200 reindeer were falling out of the sky. But it was just hail. Not your South Dakota I-will-never-recognize-my-pickup type of hail. Just good old pelt-the-daffodils-to-the-ground hail. And then a surge of rain water. Winter - 100; spring - 2.

The picture I posted at the top was meant to give a little impression of how wet we were this evening. But it looks more like an advertisement for the wet brick look.

But there it is again: that symbolic fork in the road. I spent part of the evening looking at long-term rentals for next year. It seems a long way off, but my trip south is going to be here in a mere 11 or 12 months.

As I look out my window watching the now-soft drizzle falling on the hot tub, I can imagine that this may be where I will be living in less than a year:

Or this: