I was awakened earlier by the sound of intense, pouring rain coupled with severe and terrifying wind.
Because this province is actually uninhabitable, but no one who lives here is willing to give up on it.
I'm thinking of working Newfoundland's abusive weather into 'the act'.
It's clicheed (I can't make the little hat over the 'e'), sure, but I feel compelled just the same.
When mothers are sending the children to school through second-story windows, all you can do is laugh.
For example, Colin and I are speaking to one another last night.
Shooting the whadya call it? Shit.
We've unintentionally left the weather network on.
I'm glancing it out of the corner of mine eye.
Now, the red screen of bad news has been flashing for the better part of the day.
This is always an unfortunate screen to see if you have any plans that involve going outside within the next few days.
So, the weatherman, who is muted, mind you, is waving his hands around our wee island's general area.
He's saying things.
There are low pressure systems being displayed behind him.
Then, this is what he does:
He goes off-screen.
He comes back, holding a meter stick
He points out a line three-qaurters of the way up the meter stick.
Then he points at the Avalon Peninsula.
It was the Irish, you see.
They came here first.
And they were running away from a place that was accustomed to hardship.
(Ireland).
And that's why we're all here.
It's also the reason why all Newfoundland cuisine involves boiling things in a big pot.
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