RAIN, RAIN, GO AWAY

In recent years I’ve been on four out-of-state business trips that included a golf outing. No, really. I know what you’re thinking. Some work was actually done at these events—honest. The host organizations simply offered a round of golf as a show of hospitality to the people who traveled so far. Also, they knew offering free golf could slightly raise the number of conference attendees. (“Slightly” being defined as: a tenfold increase.)

Anyway, one of these out-of-state golf outings was in Georgia in early April. First the morning fog burned off, then the skin on my neck burned off. Since there were snow flurries when I left Connecticut for that trip, it didn’t occur to me to bring sun block. Who knew the term “redneck” was based in fact?

At the other three out-of-state golf events, sunburn was not a problem. Drowning was. Each round of golf was cut short by wicked thunderstorms. I’m still owed nine holes in Virginia, seven holes in Missouri, and 15 holes in Michigan. (And don’t think I’m going to forget this, fellas. Your organizations had better invite me back to finish my rounds.)

Most of the time when it rains, it’s not such a big deal. The main problem usually is my umbrella is still in the car, so I get a little wet running from the office to the parking lot. Another minor problem occurs when my old windshield wipers decide they don’t feel like pushing water out of the way anymore, and instead are in the mood to smear a thin film of insect guts all over the windshield. But who needs to see clearly when commuting home, anyway?

Sometimes rainstorms completely ruin very special plans. My string of frustrating golfus interruptus incidents are nothing compared to some other once in a lifetime occasions: outdoor weddings, graduation parties, weekends at the Cape, or box seats for a Red Sox/Yankees game.

It’s amazing how something as commonplace as the daily weather forecast can make or break an event. If the day turns out sunny and mild, it’s the best 4th of July barbecue ever. But if it rains all day, everyone sits in the house and glumly stares out the window at the soggy backyard and wishes they were at the office instead. (OK, I exaggerate. To paraphrase the fishermen’s bumper sticker: “A bad day of glumly staring out the window at the soggy backyard on the 4th of July is better than a good day at work.” Hmm, to fit on a bumper sticker, we might have to shorten that.)

So once again, or so it seems, our fate is in the hands of the weather forecasters. Why does that NOT give me a warm and fuzzy feeling? Ever notice that sometimes we’re happy with the weather people when they’re wrong? Let’s say there’s a big outdoor party scheduled for Saturday. All week long the forecast for Saturday is rain. But when Saturday arrives sunny and dry, we proclaim, “All right! Thank you for being so wrong so often, Geoff (or Brad or Scot)!”

But if all week long the forecast for Saturday is sunny, and then it actually rains, we become irate. “Geoff (or Brad or Scot)! You ruined everything, you incompetent Doppler dodo!!!” (Doppler dodo? Sorry, in moments of weather-related frustration bizarre invectives often are blurted out.)

Well, the risk of a rainout is just a fact of life in the summer. Unless you try my new plan: hold all summertime events, including golf and barbecues, in the basement.