6% moisture content

Last night my father-in-law called us to get the number for Mt. Bachelor's weather report. It was just an excuse. I mean, he did want to know that phone number but of course he could have looked it up himself; his call was an excuse to talk with his son about the storm.

I never knew any family so aware of the weather. During last month's dismayingly dry, warm spell my husband, his sister and his brother all explained to me – independently – that winter was being kept at bay by a high-pressure front off the Pacific coast. (I think it was a high-pressure zone. Maybe it was a low-pressure zone. I never listen to their words; I listen to the tone in their voices.) At any given moment my sister-in-law can tell me where the clouds are on a weather map and what it means for us; and any of them can discuss the current situation on the mountain passes.

It matters, they tell me. Here in Oregon the weather is changeable, and it matters.

Oh, I know. I check Mt. Bachelor's report on weekends, too. But still. This hyper-awareness of the weather is a continual reminder to me that Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore.

My husband was not able to take a call from his father last night because on Wednesdays he goes out with the boys. They skin up the Cinder Cone after work. Last month Wednesdays were miserable for them because the weather remained so warm and dry, but last week! and last night! Last night they skied in a storm, windy and very cold with poor visibility, relying on headlamps rather than the moon – but the snow, my husband told me, was so incredibly beautifully light: six percent moisture content, he said.

So I talked with my father-in-law instead. He told me about the situation on the Santiam Pass and I told him it was snowing lightly at our house, which is at a higher elevation than his house, and he said he'd call his son in the morning to hear a report on Mt. Bachelor's conditions.

Then I hung up and stood at the window awhile watching the snow fall.