Autumn, rain and lemmings

It always feels like a little Autumn miracle when it happens — when the temperature finally drops into the 60s after a long sauna summer and the cooler breeze entices you to listen to uplifting Irish jigs and reels as you drive off to work instead of the sad piano music you’ve been listening to for months on end; and then when you return home, you feel so energized and refreshed that you spend the rest of the day out in the yard, mowing and trimming and cutting and tending and dreaming of the future, fixing whatever has needed fixing for years, making plans to burn all the downed limbs in a bonfire you’ll keep lit all weekend long, and even contemplating cooking some steaks on the open fire, even though you’re pert near a vegetarian.

But it’s just a trick. A preview of things to come. Not the actual “movie.” Just the trailer. All the reviews say it’ll be the best thing you’ll ever experience. Coming soon. But not today. While you’re waiting, go back to listening to sad piano music.

And then rain comes down in torrents — “Forget about cats and dogs, it’s raining elephants,” “But it’s a good rain, and we really needed it,” “There goes my driveway again,” “But remember, into each life some rain must fall,” “All at once, though?” “Be still sad heart and cease repining, behind the clouds is the sun still shining” — good torrents that bring back memories of the Summers of 2011 and 2012 when the rain DIDN’T fall, and the lake was so low your neighbors were mowing the grass underneath their boat docks.

It was indeed a good rain. Needed. And the electricity only went out once. For a short time. It could have been worse. A lot worse. You might’ve waited to do all that yard work. Weeds begetting weeds. Sure, you can’t burn those limbs or cook that steak, but there are plenty of chores and things to take care of inside. Where it is dry. 

Like striving to create the perfect 365-day “Theory of Everything” dinner menu list which has eluded chefs and physicists alike for decades due to the realization we all perceive reality differently — some dealing with food allergies, some gluten-free, some who can’t stand Brussel sprouts, others who love them — or maybe that’s just in my imagination, and chefs and physicists couldn’t care one iota if they ate pizza every day for dinner, or PB&J sandwiches. 

All this to keep my mind off of lemmings. Lemmings blindly following other lemmings. See cliff, jump off cliff. A misconception not based in fact, but invite your friends. We’ll have a good time. Criticize those who don’t follow. They’re the enemy. Round them up and throw them off against their will. They’ll thank you for it later. We’re the greatest. They’re not. Jump, baby! Jump.

I had no idea that lemmings were little rodents akin to hamsters and gerbils. I always pictured them as something different. My friend, Ethan, gave me the strangest look when I used “lemmings” in a sentence that implied I thought they were non-flying birds like penguins or miniature emus. His look implied the contrary. I did a quick search. And to my surprise…

Believing you have all the answers is foolish. Never admitting when you are wrong is ludicrous. Thinking we have always been “the greatest” is delusional. Refusing to lend a helping hand is plain cruel. When your core belief is centered around “My way or the highway,” others start making good use of detours, finding comfort in long and winding dirt roads.