Ever since we got here, people have assured us “this isn’t normal weather.” (Going on four years, now.) I think some of that is the averaging people’s memories do, but some of it is also true, in that (this is my theory) there is no normal for Anchorage.

Two winters ago we broke the record for snowfall since they’ve been measuring in Anchorage (1915). Last winter was the longest from first measurable snow to last measurable snow (on May 18). This June broke the record for the most days above 70 degrees — and we had several over 80, when we “normally” average one day above 80 per year.

It’s been a lovely summer — the first really nice one since 2009, the summer before we moved up. It makes the timing of my busted foot (and hand) particularly frustrating, because it’s a crime to sit still when we know that Anchorage’s time above freezing is so short, and summers this nice are so scarce. It also isn’t that pleasant to be inside, since there’s no air conditioning in the house.

I don’t have an update on the foot or the hand. Well, there was an MRI and a cortisone shot in the wrist, but that hasn’t made the thumb better. I’m mad at everyone in the medical establishment right now. Except you, Dad. And Donna. … OK, I’m just mad at foot and hand people. Even though I know it’s not their fault.

Anyway, the weather. Yeah, it’s hard to prepare for the change in seasons, when they’re so unpredictable. People seem to be in kind of a happy, exhausted haze from enjoying the summer so much. We’ve started looking at the fireweed with trepidation, though. (The saying is, winter starts six weeks after the flowers turn to fluff.)

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