Summer in Portland, Oregon is generally a glorious time. From June to August, the rainfall is negligible at best (we often see about a half inch of rain in July compared to around 7 in December). The sunshine is the decadent reward for enduring week upon week of grayness and drizzle. Even still, the worst weather we Portlandians have to contend with is rain and temperatures in the high 30s. Local meteorologists routinely report on weather in other locales because what’s going here is so tame. Suffice to say, gloominess aside, we don’t live in a harsh, unforgiving climate. Early fall can be a rude awakening for Oregonians: the dreaded precipitation inevitably returns with frustrating regularity. Cut to my daughter’s soccer practice last week. It began to sprinkle. Hoods came on, and things proceeded as scheduled. The raindrops became more insistent, and those with umbrellas broke them out. I started to think, Gonna be time to call practice anytime. Yet, practice continued. The rain ratcheted up to torrential status, and everyone not playing took cover under a giant oak tree. At this point, there was open grumbling amongst some parents (I among them) questioning why practice was not cut short. Yet there were a few other parents that began to proclaim that “This is how we do it here!” or something to that effect (the rain was too loud for me to make out the words). Um, okay…putting aside the obvious inclement weather, this was a practice for 5-year-old soccer players (fighting the urge to invoke a phrase made infamous by Allen Iverson years ago…). Second, where do these people come off pretending to be hardy folk? Downtown streets here are deserted when the temperature drops below 40 degrees. Snow – rare as it is – is treated as a sign of End Times. Pacific Northwesterners are lovely people but, as a native New Englander, I mock their faux-hardiness. I guess this is my long-winded way of asking, “Coach…what exactly were you trying to prove?”