My parents did not communicate well. They didn’t talk about their children. They didn’t talk about the news. The didn’t talk about what needed doing around the house. The seemed to talk only about one thing – the weather.
My father would come home from work and settle into his evening meal. He would take his cup of tea, add sugar and stir it round and round and round for what seemed forever, staring into space. Often somebody would ask him abruptly to stop stirring. Sometimes he would just snap out of it.
Eventually my mother would take her place at the table and the art of saying nothing would commence.
“It was a hot one today,” my father would say.
“Yes, it was,” my mom would reply.
“Got up to 78.” These were the days of Fahrenheit in Canada.
“No it didn’t. It was 77.”
That was it. Their trenches were dug and they would sit and argue about one degree. Never mind that they might have heard the weather report at different times of the day, thus the difference. It didn’t matter that few would be able to tell the difference between 77 and 78 degrees Fahrenheit. What mattered to each one was being right.
As a youngster I vowed to avoid talking about the weather at all possible costs. Sure, I might mention it if we have a blizzard or a tornado, but the everyday occurrence called the weather is really quite boring. Having lived in England, I learned you could have all four seasons in one day, so I simply learned to react to what was happening outside. I didn’t need to pick it apart in conversation.
There’s more to talking about the weather, though. It is an indication that something is wrong when this is what you talk about with a loved one. A whole world is happening out there. It is sad when your commentary on life is reduced to stating the obvious and is measured by degrees Fahrenheit or Celcius. Perhaps it gets a bit more exciting if you measure it in degrees Kelvin.
My father would come home from work and settle into his evening meal. He would take his cup of tea, add sugar and stir it round and round and round for what seemed forever, staring into space. Often somebody would ask him abruptly to stop stirring. Sometimes he would just snap out of it.
Eventually my mother would take her place at the table and the art of saying nothing would commence.
“It was a hot one today,” my father would say.
“Yes, it was,” my mom would reply.
“Got up to 78.” These were the days of Fahrenheit in Canada.
“No it didn’t. It was 77.”
That was it. Their trenches were dug and they would sit and argue about one degree. Never mind that they might have heard the weather report at different times of the day, thus the difference. It didn’t matter that few would be able to tell the difference between 77 and 78 degrees Fahrenheit. What mattered to each one was being right.
As a youngster I vowed to avoid talking about the weather at all possible costs. Sure, I might mention it if we have a blizzard or a tornado, but the everyday occurrence called the weather is really quite boring. Having lived in England, I learned you could have all four seasons in one day, so I simply learned to react to what was happening outside. I didn’t need to pick it apart in conversation.
There’s more to talking about the weather, though. It is an indication that something is wrong when this is what you talk about with a loved one. A whole world is happening out there. It is sad when your commentary on life is reduced to stating the obvious and is measured by degrees Fahrenheit or Celcius. Perhaps it gets a bit more exciting if you measure it in degrees Kelvin.
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