The pickle

Most of the day it has rained, except when it snowed. Some things went wrong, most went right. At least it all got done. On the whole, the day reminded me of Dick Goddard and the pickle.

Dick Goddard was the meteorologist for one of the three Cleveland television stations. Three stations! That’s how old this story must be. I’ll look up some pictures to include of the long running weatherman.

I remember Dick on the dorm televisions when I was in college in the sixties, and on our little black and white television in the seventies. He was there in the eighties and nineties, and forever.

He made weather boards to show us what was going on. He strung up white pointed front lines. He had whirly tornados and glorious sunshine. He had white clouds and he had grey clouds with rain.

Once Dick was not there and the station manager was tapped for the weather job for the day. He stood bravely by Dick’s weather board and managed very well until he came to the weekend forecast of rain.

“Now for the weekend,” he said, “we’re dealing with the pickle again!” If there was noise in the studio, it went dead quiet. If it were color TV, his red face would have been noted. He was obviously disconcerted. He opened his mouth again, to put his foot in further.

“Those rain clouds look just like pickles. Don’t you agree? Every time I see them on his boards, I think ‘well, we’re under a pickle again!’”

When I was the artist at shows, the pickle was too familiar. At a show at Sea World in Aurora, Ohio, artists were shoulder to shoulder around the main concourse. It was a two weekend show and we didn’t have to tear down our displays during the week. I suppose the regular season was over and this was prior to other entertainment.

The artist next to me was a water colorist. The first weekend we chatted, and as the weather forecast looked more ominous, Dick Goddard’s pickle sprang to mind and I told her of the night I saw the pickle broadcast.

It did rain most of the week, but the next weekend was glorious sunshine. When I arrived early Saturday morning to set up, the water color artist presented me with a special memento.

She had painted our two tents, huddled together, under a fat, ominous raining pickle. And one said to the other, “This is a fine pickle we’re under!”

I always hung several small pictures in my booth, mostly of us weaving or sewing. And I hung the pickle, too, and was happy to explain to anyone who noticed.

This is post 1,500!