A patient sort of curiosity.

I started keeping a weather notebook after noticing that my memory made every summer afternoon sound identical. Hot, humid, probably raining somewhere: that was the whole story. Writing a few sentences each day revealed all the differences I had been flattening out. Even the quiet days had their own texture.

My porch faces a narrow street in Tampa. A low roof interrupts part of the view, and a large tree blocks the north, so I make a point of noting where I am looking. The diary does not pretend to describe the whole city. It describes what I can actually see from a familiar place.

I like measurements, but I am equally interested in useful language. “A soft-edged gray layer” tells my future self more than “bad sky.” I draw the rough outline of a cloud bank, note the direction it travels, and sometimes add a sentence about what changed in the garden after the rain.

Outside this hobby, I cook slowly, mend bicycle lights, and get distracted by maps. I am learning rather than teaching a formal course, and I revise old assumptions without much ceremony. The notebook is best when it makes me ask a better question. Being right on the first attempt is an optional extra.