O the land of cloudless day,
O the land of an unclouded day,
O they tell me of a home where no storm clouds rise,
O they tell me of an uncloudy day.
As sung about by Willie Nelson and others, the land of the uncloudy day is heaven, where many of us, yours truly, plan on living one day. But for the past week, the place without any clouds has also been Waco, and I’m getting sick and tired of it.
The last time there was a cloud in the Waco sky (I know, because I have kept an eye on this) was eight days ago — Monday, October 22 — when a cold front blew through town, giving us refreshing cold temperatures and lots of rain and wind. As the front blew through, it took the clouds with it. Since then, as the weather people on television have explained patiently each day, Texas is now cloaked by a big, upturned Tupperware bowl of high pressure, which prevents even the wispiest wisp of a cloud from coming through.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love sunshine, and am glad that we in Texas are fortunate enough to have lots of it. I think I would grow quite morose and even suicidal if I had to live in, say, Seattle or Tacoma, where it’s always some sort of overcast, drizzly, mold-producing day outside, no matter the season.
But, then again, I can see the flip side of that line James Taylor wrote in “Fire and Rain,” the one which says, “I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end.” Too much of anything, without change, ad infinitum, can be too darn much.
When I walk or drive around Waco these days, I feel as if I am living in the science project of some unseen giant child, with a 150-watt bulb turned forever toward the cobbled-together diorama below (“Can High Doses of UV Rays Make Texan Little People Turn Homicidal?”) When I walk outside, my retinas are immediately bushwacked by blinding rays of light that even my Blues Brothers-strength shades cannot fully temper. I am forced to walk around with my hand constantly forming a shelf over my eyes, like a pose of some lovesick movie heroine looking out to sea, awaiting the return of her long lost love.
At 5 p.m., when I drive toward home, the unblinking sun is just above the horizon, which means that when I navigate the long road that leads to my house, I must stare straight into the inferno’s very heart for what seems like eternity. By the time I pull into my driveway, half blind with pulsing spots floating across my vision, I feel as though I can relate to criminal suspects who must endure police interrogations in small rooms from corrupt detectives armed with loose ethics and extremely high wattage.
I am thankful that we in Texas aren’t being literally burned up, like the poor people of Southern California are. I am thankful that we are all not covered with a musty green fur like the people in a Seattle coffee shop. I am thankful for the cool breezes and colorful leaves of a Texas autumn.
But I want my clouds back. Now. Before I have to invest in a cane and a well-trained dog.