I’ve never been nostalgic. As a child, I often spent weeks away from home at my grandparents’ house or at the home of friends, without a single thought of what I might be missing in my own family. I am very much a creature of the moment.

I’ve also never been photogenic. People rarely believe me when I say this, but then they take a photo of me and remark, “Oh, I see. You’re right.” I’m short, my frame is square, my hair and clothes are inevitably messy, my eyes are squinty in bright light, and if I know someone is taking a picture, my face goes all stiff. I find it impossible to smile on demand. I usually try to avoid being photographed if at all possible. Only a professional photographer who takes hundreds of shots can create a presentable photo of me. Which explains why my author photo is a bit dated.

Selfies are mystifying to me. Who wants yet another photo of herself in front of another landmark? Do all selfie-takers worship themselves? As a child, I had posters of the astronauts and Olympic skiers I adored on my walls, not a single shot of myself. Equally mystifying to me are snapshots of meals or drinks or clothing on Instagram and Facebook. Living animals and plants and landscapes, I can often appreciate.

Put all of these challenges together, and it makes sense that I have very few photographic mementos of my past. In recent years, I’ve realized what a tragedy that is. Late last year, a dear friend of more than 40 years passed away. While searching for a photo to put on his memorial page, I was appalled to discover that couldn’t find any. There were a few action shots taken during backpacking adventures we’d done together, but none of just the two of us, and none of him by himself. I sat down and cried. Why hadn’t I taken more pictures? It simply didn’t seem important at the time, but now it does. I ended up cropping his image out of a photo his friends had sent to me from his solo trip to Egypt. Thank heavens my Pixel phone has a magic erase function to eradicate extraneous people from photos.

For a local adventure magazine, I wanted to write a story about backpacking the West Coast Trail, also called the Lifesaving Trail, on Vancouver Island. Of course it needed photos to illustrate the amazing landscapes and challenging obstacles along the route. I had a handful of old pictures, but none that were good or particularly useful for the article. I remember the trip in vivid detail, but I was building campfires and climbing ladders and ferrying people and gear across rivers in cable cars instead of snapping photos. Honestly, what is wrong with me?

My hiking club likes to post photos of every hike, but I have often thought, why? We have hundreds of photos of the same place. Now I get it. It’s to document the people who were there.

So now, even though it’s not something I naturally do, I try to remember to take photos of my gatherings, whether the events are ordinary or extra-special. You never know when you’ll want to look at that memory again.

by Margaret Lucke

Is it hot enough for you? Here where I live in Northern California, we’re sitting under a long-lasting heat dome—heat meaning 100° and more. And we’re not alone. Most of the country has been enduring extreme weather this summer—ultra high temperatures, severe thunderstorms, tornados, the season’s first destructive hurricane.

But at least we don’t have to endure oobleck.

Have you ever encountered oobleck? It’s green, sticky, relentless. It gummed up an entire kingdom and brought all activity to a halt.

As a little kid, I loved the stuff.

I discovered the green goo in a book in my kindergarten classroom: Bartholomew and the Oobleck, by Dr. Seuss.

Bartholomew is a lowly page boy serving the royal court of the Kingdom of Didd. The king has become bored with endless cycle of sunshine, rain, snow, and fog, and he summons his royal magicians from their secret cave and asks them to make something new come down from the sky. Bartholomew protests that this is a bad idea, but the king insists. The magicians oblige him by creating oobleck, and what results is a disaster of epic proportions. It’s up to the humble Bartholomew to save the day.

By the time I reached first grade, I’d read that book 1,247 times (approximately). I’ve been a big fan of weather in literature ever since. (If not always a fan of what’s going on when I step outside my house.)

Dr. Seuss violated the first of Elmore Leonard’s famous rules for writers, which is: “Never open a book with weather.” This book doesn’t just start with weather; it has weather on every page. Without weather, there would be no story at all.

And that’s very much in keeping with the reason Leonard gives for his directive. A description of weather may set a mood, but that’s not enough pull readers into a story. Readers want to meet the characters and jump into the action. They don’t care that it’s a dark and stormy night–at least, not until they see how the characters react to the storm and find out how it impedes the hero’s ability to solve the problem or meet the challenge set forth by the plot.

I’ve often heard it said that the purpose of fiction is to provide the reader with an emotional experience. Weather is one experience that everyone shares, and anyone whose heart has felt lighter on a sunny day or who has gripped the steering wheel tighter while driving on an ice-choked road knows that weather can evoke emotion.

When an author uses it well, a bit of weather can transport readers into the world of the story and help them relate to what the characters are going through. As E.L. Doctorow said, “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader–not the fact that it’s raining but the feeling of being rained upon.”

Or being ooblecked upon. What a horrible mess that is! Excuse me while I try to scrape this green, sticky, gooey glop off my boots.

And whatever the weather is right now in your part of the world: Stay cool. Keep dry. Be safe.