Emily Articulated: How about this weather?

By Emily Erickson
Reader Columnist

I never used to understand why everyone talked about the weather. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, quippy weather observation was the small talk go-to ahead of, “How are you?” and, “How’s school going?” — spearheading the conversations that spanned the moments between errands; between familiar, but seemingly distracted, friends and neighbors. In Wisconsin, “Any black ice out there?” and “Damn this windchill,” was as intrinsic to social nicety as the nod and wave. And I hated it. 

I wanted people to talk about more interesting things, deeper things. As a kid, I wanted to ask what their favorite color was that day, and what materials they preferred for their snowman’s nose. As a teen, I wanted to know about their adventures from far-off places and the things that scared them, but that they were daring to try anyhow. I wanted to ask, “What’s the last thing that made you belly laugh?” “Why do your eyes look tired today?” and “What’s just one thing on your mind that doesn’t involve a snowplow?”

I chafed against what felt like empty words (I still do, I suppose), with questions asked that didn’t really want for answers. I sought out and connected to the people who plunged through surface chatter, leaned into experiences that transcended day-to-day niceties, and was in perpetual pursuit of the “good stuff” — those moments in which shared vulnerability collides with emotions, emerging as a better understanding of each other and ourselves.

Emily Erickson. Courtesy photo.

More often than not, I was met with, “This humidity today!”

I think, in part, the reason everyone starts nearly all of their conversations with weather commentary in places like where I grew up is that weather events loom large and frequent — with temperatures spending months in the frigid, frostbitten, wind-chill-warning ranges between zero and negative 40° (something we can acutely relate to from the past few days). 

Conversely, high temperatures can shoot up to 100, with humidity thickening the air to a nearly rain-like kind of moisture density. Thunderstorms boom into flash floods, high winds whirl into touch-down tornadoes and cicadas emerge in clouds akin to biblical damnation.

When the conditions are extreme, it becomes obvious conversation kindling. But I also wonder if something else was lurking behind the weather quips that I missed in my youthful brazenness. Perhaps, mixed up in the small talk, was a nod to shared identity and a cracked door to easy, honest connection and kindness. 

Last week, when my phone flashed with a winter storm warning, with Wisconsin-cold temperatures predicted in the weekend’s forecast, the part of me that is confident in handling weather events clicked on. I dragged out the extra blankets and my warmest wool sweater and made sure there was plenty of wood stacked in the box next to the stove. I asked my partner about the condition of the pipes, and stocked up on extra food and water (and other non-essential essentials, like puzzles, books and art supplies), just in case we were properly frozen in.

I felt bolstered by being the kind of person hardy enough to handle a few frosty days and a sense of identity in being a “winter person,” equipped to hack it in less-than-ideal conditions. And in my small exchanges — on coffee runs and take-out pick-ups — I sought out that same hardiness in others, connecting to people through questions about their pipes and how they were managing to get their pets safely out to pee. The sentiments weren’t vulnerable or grand, but they were shared and, in a way, intimate.

Weather has a way of leveling us — reminding us of the things we have in common at a time when we’re used to being pulled apart. A snowstorm transcends political affiliations, opposing sports teams, newcomers and locals, and generational gaps, providing an easy avenue for people to connect to and show up for one another.

In lending a hand with a shovel (or, even better, a snowplow), pulling a stranger out of a ditch, salting the sidewalk beyond the squares in front of our own front door and checking on our neighbor’s water supply, we’re sharing something. And in bundled-up waves, and exclamations of, “I hope you’re staying warm,” maybe, there’s a piece of the “good stuff,” that also says, “I see the resolve in you, too,” and “I’m glad you’re here — in this experience — with me.”

So, I guess, how about this weather, after all?

Emily Erickson is a writer and business owner with an affinity for black coffee and playing in the mountains. Connect with her online at www.bigbluehat.studio.