For some reason, the Weather Channel cut me off on Oct. 4. I'm not sure why. I've tried to be a good viewer. I carry an umbrella and windbreaker in my car so I can handle anything they predict. But suddenly it was gone and, while other channels attempted to attract my attention, I tried not to panic.
When the WC first entered the scene, I couldn't believe it would succeed.
"Twenty-four hours of weather? Are they nuts!? Who's gonna watch cloud formations, high pressure fronts and drought reports . . . unless they're a student?" (This harkens back to my college course in Earth Science.)
That was then. This is now. And my morning routine consists of letting out the cat, turning on the Weather Channel and then proceeding to the other necessities of the morning, such as making coffee and brushing my teeth. One ear is always cocked for the music that heralds "your weather on the eights." I watch this two or three times before leaving for work, as if somehow it will magically change from 60 percent chance of rain to fair and sunny in that 10-minute period between reports.
In summer my television fare frequently consisted of Storm Stories, those tales of foolish people who saw the massive black clouds, popping electric transformers, swirling debris and called, "Maw, get the video camera. A cow just flew by."
But fall has arrived and West Wing is back. For at least one hour each Wednesday night, I turn my back on flying cows in favor of political hot air.
Still, before putting head to pillow at night, I must make certain that the sun will come up tomorrow. Not that I don't trust Dick Fletcher and his three-degree forecast. But, gosh, these Weather Channel folks are like family!
It's not that I can't look outside and see clear skies and know that last night the WC folks told me I'd have beautiful weather for the next three days. It's not that I don't know that it's 99 degrees with 120 percent humidity when I step outside at 7 a.m. to pick up my St. Pete Times. The fact that I keep a towel by my door to mop off, from either rain or humidity, attests to the fact that I can tell what the weather is doing.
But when the Weather Channel signal got scrambled, so did I.
I admit it. I need my fix. I need the music so adroitly chosen by WC music programmer Steve Hurst to accompany my "Local Weather." I need those 10-minute progressions to advance my morning toward departure time. I need to be amazed that it is early October and already snow is falling - thankfully not here . . . not yet.
I need to check the Cleveland weather to know what I'm missing, and what my granddaughters should be wearing and probably aren't, because only grandma knows best.
But on that Saturday morning my world went wacky. My signal was scrambled and all the cable company could say was "you're the only one who's complained. Now we'll have to check the substation, the lines, the frammen-jammer and the fritzenhausen. And if we can't find a problem - IT'S YOU! Be home Monday between 8 a.m. and noon."
Monday??? Noooo!!! I need my weather! Not to mention the fact that I work on Mondays. This is called service?
I survived Oct. 4, mostly by going out and spending an inordinate amount of money on groceries. With my freezer full of ground beef, pork chops, steaks, chicken parts, frozen peas, cranberries, pie crusts and ice cream, and my cupboard reinforced by 2 x 4's, survival until the Apocalypse seemed possible. Unless an unforeseen hurricane took out my power. Then it becomes open-pit banquet time.
I stayed up past 1 a.m. flicking frantically through the channels for a weather fix. My nighttime WC companions and their pearls of weathery prose were nothing but squiggly lines on my screen.
Do you see where this is going? Inordinate money spending, late night hours and frenzied flicking.
Sunday had football. The morning was difficult, but I only flicked back to the WC about 20 or 30 times. An improvement over Saturday's non-stop button pushing.
Monday came, no cable guy showed up and the WC was still out when I convinced myself that having a job to pay for my cable, which in turn was supposed to dispense the Weather Channel, was a wiser choice than wallowing without weather.
I called to tell the cable company I was standing them up. Lo and behold, a nice woman took the blame off me and put it on the WC. I was absolved.
"Go in peace," she said. And I did.
Monday evening I pushed the power button on the remote, selected the channel and prayed.
Angels sang, a halo appeared around my television, I'm sure Halley's comet put in a special appearance just for me as a melody wafted across my living room and my Local Weather popped onto the screen.
Well, it would have been local if I lived in Boston, Detroit or Chicago, but at least the maps, the high and low pressure ridges and the isobars of my life were back in focus. I wasn't scrambled anymore.
And if I'm a good girl, keep my video camera handy and trust that Steve will pick only good music for the local forecast, perhaps the Weather Channel will return the Citrus-Hernando forecast someday.
