Summertime, and the complainin' is easy

In old newspapers, "drought" is often spelled "drowt." It suggests that readers were confused by the proper spelling and thought it should be pronounced "dro-you-ghet?" But "drought" is a better spelling; it looks parched. "Drowt" is one consonant away from "drown."

Yes, our subject today is the lack of rain, which practically guarantees rainy weekends for the next month and renders this all moot. I will wake on Saturday morning, look out the window at the incessant inundation and say, "Welp, I've been moot-rendered." Maybe it won't be enough rain, and this will be only partly moot-rendered. Best-case scenario, the column will be half-moot.

The problem is the forecasting. Rain predictions are now listed as percentages — for instance, there's a 30% chance. Over the past month, we have learned that 30% means "it's not going to happen." Oh, there could be a good system working our way from Oklahoma, but it peters out over Iowa and what was a big storm turns into wisps that dodge Minnesota like someone with a pocket full of weed trying to elude a cop.

"But weed is legal now," you say. "Wouldn't the storm proceed directly into town regardless of a cop, because even though the new laws haven't taken effect, there seems to be a general understanding that enforcement is not a top priority?"

Perhaps, but maybe it depends on the quantity: If the storm is one of those heavy all-day affairs, then it could be accused of trafficking. No one's going to worry about a cloud that has a few gallons for personal use, but 400,000 gallons, heading up I-35 for Duluth, that's different.

The point is, 30% means nothing. We've seen it day after day. You hope for rain, because you don't want a summer to go dry and crackly again, with empty creek beds and lakes so low the fish are bumping into each other and burbling "Ope, sorry" or whatever they say. Especially because summer suddenly seems finite.

"What?" you say. "Heresy. We're just getting started! The solstice was the official kickoff!"

Plus, we're probably only hours from the first announcement about new State Fair foods (coffee bacon and skewered goat shanks dipped in sausage gravy).

"Will you stop, please?" you say. "What kind of person spends the end of June thinking about the end of summer?" Well, someone who has long experience in something we all do. We take it for granted. We start to complain.

I heard people remark that it got too hot too fast this year. "Man, it's like July out there. What happened to June? Why don't the weather systems moderate their behavior to conform to my expectations?"

Last week, we complained about the gnats. I would write outside in the evening, and when I opened my laptop, the screen attracted a crowd like the first showing of a "Star Wars" sequel in 1980.

In May, we complained about the bushels of seeds dumped by the trees, which I had to vacuum up. You can't yell at the trees and point out that they do this every year and maybe they've noticed that dumping 4 million seeds on the sidewalk has resulted in exactly zero new trees.

It could be one of those summers. Bugs, drought, allergies, torrid heat, sweat, power failures from an overstressed grid laboring to keep the AC systems going, your shoe sticking to the melted ribbon of tar on a parking lot, getting in the car that's like a pizza oven, three weeks of dog-terrifying fireworks.

At some point the little cartoon devil on your shoulder whispers into your ear: "You know, it'll be a relief when September rolls around." The worst part is that the cartoon angel on your other shoulder nods in agreement.

We can indulge thoughts like that because the world is green, and it seems as if it will always be so. In a way, it seems as if it always has been so; we look back at memories of the drifts of winter and think that it was just a weird dream.

Summer is the state of things, and because we're used to it now and we think it'll last forever, we do the human thing — we complain.