Societal Satire in Shorts
Weather, Or Not
S. G. Lacey
January – Jackson Hole, Wyoming
I know it needs to be cold to snow, but this is a little excessive. Looking out the heavily frosted kitchen window onto the deck, the red liquid in the thermometer reads minus 12°F. The smaller digits listed on the opposite side of the tube, alternate units preferred by our neighbors slightly to the north, show a negative number which is nearly double.
At this rate, we’re quickly headed towards the point where these Celsius and Fahrenheit values converge. The only reason I know this infernal atmospheric monitoring device isn’t broken is because it keeps moving downward.
I wonder what temperature liquid mercury freezes at? If we reach that point, I’m guessing we’re really in trouble.
The double pane glass in the window shutters again, buffeted by another fierce gust of wind, which continues to pummel this see-through wall with microscopic pellets of ice.
I don’t know who puts out the weather forecast around this town, but I would love to give them a piece of my mind. And a swift kick in the shins with my ski boot, considering these clunky plastic items aren’t useful for anything else right now.
Based on the phone-in ski report I checked this morning, as I do even before getting out of bed on these ski trips, the entire mountain is on hold for wind. I didn’t come here to ski groomers. Or get frost bite.
It’s been an eventful journey to this condo in the Jackson Hole Village base area. Our crew does an annual guy’s ski trip, skiing being the operative word right now. For me, this adventure is always refreshing break the monotony of work and home life, helping stave off a mid-life crisis.
The original plan was to check out the Canadian Rockies, but my college roommate is still waiting for a DWI to go off his record, so a border crossing was unfortunately off the table. In past years, we’ve already hit the usual destination ski resort spots across the western United States: Colorado’s Front Range, Salt Lake City’s Wasatch Crest, and the Sierras around Lake Tahoe, so decide to pick a more northern, and remote, option. That’s what led us here to the Teton Valley in Wyoming.
A smaller airport, fewer rental house option, grocery shopping in town 15 miles away; all those obstacles were solvable, and worth the allure of 4,000-foot vertical tram laps on steep powder runs through the iconic banded cliffs.
The weather projections started out so well. We booked a week in prime time, the end of January; a perfect balance of sufficient base coverage and high likelihood of fresh powder. Leading up to the trip, I checked the web diligently, growing more pumped with each successive posting. There was a series of storms moving across the west coast of North America, offering promising potential for multiple feet of fresh snow, with temperatures pegged around the ideal 20°F range to keep the flakes large, light, and fresh.
Giddy with excitement two days ago, I packed my powder skis, one extra base layer, normal thickness thermal socks, and my all-weather gloves.
However, the morning of our flight, inconveniently after I was already headed to the airport, the forecast suddenly changed. The first weather system apparently pushed through quickly, not stalling long enough to drop any useful snow in the Jackson area. Following this rapidly moving storm, an arctic cold front started moving down from the north, settling in over the entire Teton range. Apparently, we’re going to experience the comforts of our Canadian neighbors after all.
A little cold weather to maintain the virgin and airy nature of champagne powder is one thing. But 4” of fresh snow on top of a frozen crust, with 40 mph winds creating massive drifts and compacted slabs, is nobody’s idea of a good time.
Popping open my laptop, which sits on the kitchen table, I go to the Jackson Hole Mountain Resort website for the third time this morning. The lift status is still the same, a row of red “X’s” all the way down the list. You would think with 13 mechanized options, they could at least get something turning at half speed.
Scrolling further down the page, I check the weather forecast optimistically. This enthusiasm quickly changes to worry, then anger. In the 5-day forecast, there are only three times when the high temperature is identified as positive at the base, with the upper mountain consistently about 10°F lower.
Even more concerning are the projected snow totals, flurries are listed for most days, but nothing over 2” until Friday, conveniently the day we leave town. Damn, where did that line-up of storm fronts go? And where did this prolonged cold air mass, with accompanying harsh winds, come from?
Now, I’m here with the wrong gear, wrong clothes, and wrong attitude. Thanks weather forecast.
If I can’t ski, maybe I’ll head over to the spa to relax the muscles, which are still tensed up due to the long plane flight from the mid-Atlantic to this tiny Jackson Airport.
Donning my swim trunks, my packable down parka, and a slightly oversized pair of Crocs conveniently provided by the condo, I head to the recreation center. Considering the current weather conditions, I opt for the indoor route through the complex.
On principle, I refuse to use indoor hot tubs if there’s an outdoor option; these always seem cleaner, less steamy, and offer more potential for temperature management by moving in and out of the scalding water. However, a few steps onto the outdoor area makes me reconsider my prerogative. Maybe this soak is a bad idea.
The wind is howling, sharp sleet stinging my exposed calves. The pressure-treated wooden deck surface has turned into a sheet of ice, which I navigate slowly on the sloppy, traction-less, foam clogs.
Reaching down, I lift the cover off the hot tub, and dip a finger in the water. A second later I recoil, not because my finger is burning, but because the rest of my arm is already beginning to freeze on account of the steam which rises from the water, then crystalizes into brittle film almost instantaneously on my skin.
It’s got to be warmer in the water than out here in the air.
After spending ten minutes submerged as deep as possible in the lukewarm liquid, which any bathing aficionado would be embarrassed by, the tips of my nose, ears, and even hair, despite its minimal sensory follicles, are numb.
People warned me it can get cold up here in Wyoming, but this is a different level of brisk. I never thought it could be too cold and windy to ski, but am now certainly convinced otherwise.
Stumbling back into the condo, complementary towels wrapped around both legs, and my head, I make a beeline straight for the fire, which we started in the arched stone hearth when we got here last night, and have keep raging the entire time since.
15 minutes later, between the warmth of the glowing logs, and the scalding hot cup of coffee I’m drinking, I’ve finally regained feeling in my extremities. What would go great with this coffee is some whiskey. Hopefully they keep the liquor store open in these conditions. It’s almost noon now, so may as well give it a shot.
Throwing on my full ski outfit, even though it doesn’t seem like I’m going to be loading a lift today, I hit the remote start button on the SUV rental. It’s best to spare no expense when traveling in the mountains, though I was hoping to use the 4-wheel drive more than the seat heaters.
​
April – Boston, Massachusetts
Why the fuck is it snowing?
The semester is almost over, and I need to start getting my necessary summer coloration. Shuffling across the quad in two inches of slush, not snow as much as semi-crystalized water, I continue to emit a silent spew of expletives. It feels like my ballet-flat-covered feet are forcing themselves through a convenient store frozen drink, sans the red dye fortunately.
I had never seen snow until I came up here from Miami. Boston University is a prestigious school, and my grandfather went here. It seemed like a great idea at the time. At this point, I have no idea why anyone would live in this terrible climate by choice.
During the past winter holiday break, I went home, spending two glorious weeks tanning on the beach. My beautiful bronze skin hasn’t been seen by a single person since then, as the temperature hasn’t gotten above freezing for three months. I was hoping to show off my sunbathing prowess to my boyfriend, maybe fling is a better term, but he never returned to campus for his second semester of freshman year. Smart man, as it turns out.
I’m fine with a sporadic chilly day, classified as below 50°F back in Florida, but this artic freeze is just silly. I looked at several websites which tabulated annual average temperature and snow accumulation before making the call to head up to the Northeast. Boston seemed like a nice compromise, climate tempered by the Atlantic Ocean, and in the heart of the city with plenty of modern amenities.
My only hope over the last few months of dark seclusion has been hearing from other ladies in the residence hall promising an early spring. We’ll be wearing skirts in no time, they said. At no time will we be wearing skirts, is what they must have meant.
I have an entire wardrobe of classy outfits in my dorm room closet which have been rendered obsolete by the weather. My daily attire now consists of heavy leggings underneath blue jeans, paired with a long sleeve shirt, wool sweater, and puffy coat up top. Once in a while, I even get to take my down jacket off while in class, if I’m lucky enough to end up in a lecture hall where the heat actually works.
Finally reaching the desired building for my next class, I grasp the frozen metal door handle with my equally frozen fingers, barely able to manipulate my tense knuckles to create the necessary grip force, and tug the heavy wooden barrier open.
A refreshing draft of warm air flows in, but in my urgency to enter the cozy sanctuary, I stub my toe, protected only by a thin film of wet suede, on the raised door jam. The only solace that keeps me from crying out in anguish is the fact that my feet are already numb, so the pain is a dull throb as opposed to a sharp pang.
The tile entry way of the building is like a skating rink, melted slush and hard salt granules conspiring to make a dangerous, nearly invisible, treacherous coating. They had rubber mats here all winter, but apparently some optimistic grounds workers convinced themselves that once April hit, the snow was done in this area. How wrong they were.
I tip toe delicately across the glossy floor, finally reaching the safety of the carpeted hallway that leads to my classroom.
Grinding the soles of my delicate flats against the carpet to extract the shards of rock salt, I curse again. I still can’t figure out why the university maintenance staff insists on covering all the walkways with salt. All this treatment does is created melted, muddy troughs throughout the grounds. Often, it’s easier to walk on the adjacent fresh, clean snow, as opposed to a slippery, brown luge track used by many others before me.
I’ve already gone through two pairs of fancy, wool-lined, winter boots, required footwear to collegiate women in the Northeast apparently, due to the unsightly white stains that salt imprints in the leather. Hence, the more minimal alternate footwear today, which turned out to definitely not be an appropriate choice considering the current weather. So much for spring optimism.
Finding an empty seat in my preferred back portion of the large lecture hall, I take off my backpack. It’s dripping with water, and apparently the upper zipper of my bag was left slightly open, creating a convenient funnel for the liquid, which pooled on top, to flow in.
Time to inspect the damage.
I first remove my laptop, which seems generally unscathed. That’s good news. Next, I pull out my notebook. Not as promising. The entire top edge of the loose-leaf sheet is wet, already bulging from the moisture absorbed.
I open the notebook, and fan out the pages as much as I can, hoping they will dry. I always take notes using a purple pen. On several of the pages, the first few lines of text along the top of the page are now smeared, my delicate cursive script turned into bloated, blotchy lines, or in the worst spots, completely smeared to resemble a watercolor brush stroke. Not much I can to about it now, maybe a hair dryer back in the dorm will do the trick.
Discarding the soggy pad onto the built-in desk in front of me, I take out my cell phone from my front jean pocket, where it always stays dry under the protection of my oversize, puffy coat. I can handle a little notebook damage, but if my phone stops working, we’ve got a much bigger problem.
Instinctively, I open up the weather app, which sits on my home screen. I’m not sure why I still keep it there, since I just get depressed whenever I look. This time is no exception.
Under Boston, Massachusetts, the value of 29°F is displayed, and below that an icon which combines what appears to be a snow flake, a sheet of ice, and a rain drop, all falling from the same menacing cloud shape. Apparently, one form of precipitation isn’t sufficient to describe how miserable the weather is outside right now.
I swipe the touch screen to the left, and smirk wryly. Miami, Florida, where the current temperature is 81°F, and the bright yellow, full sun logo rubs in just how nice the weather is there.
I can only image what 81°F feels like; in this large, drafty room, it can’t be more than 60°F. My sockless feet are still numb inside my minimal shoes. Exacerbated, I decide to do something about this problem once and for all.
Opening up one of the many online shopping platforms on my phone, I search for women’s rubber boots. A variety of options pop up, and I select a pair that looks like they will come up to mid-calf, with a thick tread pattern. Pink of course, like the pair I use to wear on my uncle’s fishing boat. Searching the internet store again, I find a 4-pack of long wool socks, selecting the thickest option available, rather than fretting about color. Verifying the payment and shipping details, the confirmation message says these items will be delivered by mid-day tomorrow. Excellent, my toes feel warmer already.
Looking up, I realize the lecture has already started. This is Introduction to Macroeconomics, not the most exciting topic in my option, but required for all students going through the business school.
In fact, this winter weather experience in Boston has convinced me of one thing. I’m going to switch my major from marketing to the sciences. Preferably meteorology, it seems like all they’re doing is flipping coins, tossing dice, and throwing darts anyways.
​
July – Decatur, Illinois
I sit at the archaic wooden kitchen table, in an equally old and frail spindle chair, which creaks every time I move. This piece of furniture is a lot like my own back in that regard.
Laid out on the table in front of me are my two most trusted companions, the Farmer’s Almanac, and the daily newspaper. Yester-daily is more appropriate. Since I live so far out of town, they only offered to deliver it to the bottom of my long driveway, a day late. Fine by me, apparently newspapers are a lot cheaper when they’re slightly obsolete.
This pair of written items provides pretty much all the information on the outside world I get these days, and conversation for that manner, though it’s pretty one-sided. Since my wife past last fall, I haven’t done much socializing.
I just checked the newspaper’s weather forecast, which looks eerily similar to that of the past day, or week, or month. High temperature in the mid-80’s Fahrenheit, low temperature in the mid-60’s, moderate wind, and most importantly, clear, sunny skies. Not what the doctor, or farmer in this case, ordered.
On the far side of the round dining surface sits some additional paperwork; these documents are less fun to peruse, but I keep these envelopes there as a constant reminder of my motivation. Unfortunately, this stack of debts continues to grow. If this summer’s fields don’t start taking off soon, I’m going to be in deep financial trouble.
Over the years, I’ve tried drawing insight from every possible source of weather forecasting, prediction, or prophecy. Gossip with other farmers at the diner. Squinting at the local weather news report on my tiny black and white TV set. Trips into town to do online searches at the library. And, most importantly, dedicated prayer.
None of these self-professed experts seem to align, or every have any consistently correct insight, on weather forecast. It’s like talking to a farmer who claims to be knowledgeable, but doesn’t know the difference between kale and cabbage, beans and beets, hay and straw. But I digress.
My father, and his father before him, have been using the same reference weather point for multiple generations. The Old Farmer’s Almanac. Our farm occupies Zone #10, right in the middle of the United States. Providing both short-term and long-term weather forecasts, historical frost details, astronomy information, and other valuable farming details, this is a valuable tool. The 1921 edition paper copy handed down from my grandfather resides in the same beside dresser drawer as my bible, and is about as worn.
Rising wearily, I take my last swig of coffee, then deposit the mug in the sink, where it clatters against several other dirty dishes. These days, I struggle to find the time, or motivation, for household cleaning.
Stopping just inside the door, I don the remainder of my attire, the same thing I wear pretty much every day. My leather boots slide on smoothly, form-fitted to my boney feet from years of use. The straw hat, pulled off the upper peg, settles around my bald head like a glove, hours of perspiration molding the individual fibers. Synching up the suspenders of my blue jean overalls, on the shoulders of my red and black flannel-checkered shirt, one of three nearly identical, threadbare items I own, I stand for a moment catching my breath. Another day at the office.
I open the once sturdy door, which now swings at an awkward angle on bent, rusty hinges, and step out into the predawn morning. As I walk to the barn, I contemplate when everything started going downhill, and how it got this bad.
Sure, the weather seems to have gotten more unpredictable over the past decade, but my family has always worked around environmental challenges.
The biggest issue is the poor allocation of funds recently. Specifically, that slick salesman, who pedaled the small-scale turbine, convincing me the wind in this part of Illinois is steady year-round, the energy generated would be sufficient to power our entire fleet of farm equipment, and sustainable, organic crops are the new trend, which fetch a significant premium in the market.
Five years later, from the ripped vinyl seat of my beat-up tractor, I see the fiberglass blades of the turbine hanging limp and lifeless, like most of the crops in the ground right now. Big promises, which didn’t pan out.
Reaching the far corner of my fields, I climbing down slowly off the rusty machine, which is older than I am. This is one of the few pieces of equipment I haven’t sold off yet, mainly because it’s so ancient none of the modern farmers, or mechanics, know how to service this fine contraption. Ride her ‘til she bucks you, I guess.
My heavy boot kicks at the dirt, passing through the soil as if it’s invisible. How can the ground be this dry? In my 64 years on this earth, I’ve never experienced such a harsh drought, and I’ve been keeping track.
In the past, my predecessors and I have been able to manage through tough growing conditions with crop rotation, adjusted planting schedules, and if all else fails, active irrigation. But this year is a different animal. In fact, an animal farm would be much less volatile right now, compared to the vegetables I’m trying to cultivate in this acrid earth.
Our family has always grown corn here, generally with good success. About 20 years ago, after pouring through the multitude of research published on crop rotation, and talking with other, more innovative, local farmers, I started alternating in soy beans. This biannual crop cycle is supposed to help manage and maintain the nutrients, specifically nitrogen, in the soil, and the technique proved quite effective.
All these theories have gone out the window this year, with sustained heavy rains in the region from late March all the way through May. It takes about four weeks of dry, temperate weather to get either of these plants going.
Aside from having the land dry enough to work, the young seedlings prefer a moist, warm environment for germination. However, heavy rains after sowing can flood the entire field, usually forcing replanting of genetically-engineered seeds, which aren’t getting any cheaper. Therefore, I waited. And waited. And waited.
Finally, a window presented itself at the beginning of June, confirmed by both my trusty Almanac, and the day-old paper reports. Thus, planting commenced.
After some intermittent showers in early June, I don’t think we’ve received a drop of rain in over a month. The newspaper is calling these recent occurrences “flash droughts”, apparently another in the seemingly endless stream of odd weather anomalies being blamed on global climate change. In my opinion, there nothing flashy about no precipitation during a pivotal time for my young crops.
It seems paradoxical, but already this growing season we’ve had too much rain, and not enough.
The old corn adage “knee high by the fourth of July” is definitely out the window. If I was lying down on this dry dirt, most of these meager corn stalks wouldn’t extend past my frail knees.
The soy beans don’t look much more promising, as the unseasonably mild winter allowed a majority of insect vermin, who usually die off in the winter frosts, to remain alive all year, coming back with a vengeance to snack on the tender, leafy, soy bean sprouts. I’ve never been a big fan of pesticides, but am rapidly starting to change my tune.
My family has always tried to avoid irrigation, knowing it draws down the water table at exactly the wrong time, but in this case, I may not have a choice. In hindsight, I probably should have taken that wind turbine investment, and put it into an irrigation pivot; the country has been slowly increasing their permitting allotment for these devices to help farmers out. Having one of those giant rotating metal structures in the field would be a bit daunting for an old veteran like myself, however options are becoming limited.
I look across the dusty acreage, rows of ploughed dirt with only sporadic crops still alive. Beyond, the ancient farmhouse leans unsteadily on old boards and a crumbling foundation. If the weather pattern doesn’t change soon, I might be the last of my family’s long lineage of Midwestern small-time farmers.
​
August – Palm Springs, California
Wedding day. My day. Finally.
Opening the expensive lace curtains of the bedroom window, my demeanor quickly changes from ecstatic to aggravated. The glass is streaked with lines of water, cross-crossing in an interwoven pattern that may as well represent the chain link fencing of a prison. Even worse, the clouds overhead are thick and dark, almost black. Like my mood right now.
I’ve only prayed for good weather on a few days of my life, and last night before going to bed, down on both knees, was by far my most vigorous plea ever. Maybe I need to save religion for the alter.
My husband and I have fought about many things during this wedding planning, and now the one item I deferred to him is going to come back to haunt me.
Of course, we don’t need a tent. It’s Palm Springs in the summer. It never rains in Southern California. We’ll be in a desert. The palm trees will provide plenty of shade. We’ll have an air-conditioned space for drinks and dinner. Ex cetera, ex cetera.
All valid points by my significant other. Plus, I had invitations, a wedding gown, bridesmaid logistics, floral decorations, and a plethora of other wedding-related tasks to deal with.
The problem is my man fancies himself an amateur weatherman.
I better check with the experts. Flipping on the large flat screen TV mounted on the wall of the bedroom, I navigate to the Weather Channel. At least this rental house is well equipped; it seems like they have a fancy television in every room. And they should, considering how much we shelled out to secure this sprawling ranch house for our wedding week.
Successfully finding the desired station, the broadcast displays their standard format, a full United States weather map, with more detailed quadrant close-ups flipping through every 15 seconds for so. I wait for the southwest segment, spanning from the Pacific Ocean to the pan handle of Oklahoma, to flash by twice, watching the location of interest intently. I don’t see any of the tell-tale green blips identifying rain in the general Southern California zone I’m currently in. I need better resolution.
Grabbing the remote, I flip to a local station. Perfect timing, a bobblehead blonde women in a studio somewhere is standing in front of the camera, with a clearly computer-generated image displayed behind her.
She has more hair products and make-up on than I plan to use today, and her yellow dress highlights regions of her body that are nowhere near her moving mouth, or pointing arm. The digitized graphic she’s explaining shows incremental times throughout the day, with temperatures and weather icons listed, on top of a prototypical sunny Palm Springs desert mountain scape.
9 AM, 89°F and cloudy. 3 PM, 105°F and clearing. 9 PM, 94°F and sunny.
That seems promising. Those temperatures actually look cooler than what we’ve planned for. We’re having the wedding later in the evening to avoid the desert heat. Happy hour is scheduled for 6 PM, a quick outdoor ceremony at 7:30 PM, reception in the climate-controlled banquet hall, then dancing the night away under the stars in the warm desert air. Until this infernal rogue rain arrived.
The TV coverage flashes to the collage of pictures taken by viewers. Apparently, rain is so rare in this area that locals felt compelled to send in cell phone photos of the event in their back yards: a young boy jumping in a puddle, water overflowing from a potted plant, a shaggy dog shaking its wet coat vigorously to dry off.
I didn’t fly all the way down here from Chicago to see images of people playing in the rain. I get plenty of that form of precipitation at home as is.
Maybe it’s just a quick passing sprinkle here at the resort. Donning a grey hooded sweatshirt, which matches the soft pants I already have on, I head downstairs. Slipping on my sneakers, which I don’t bother to tie, I open the front door, and step out onto the small, covered veranda. Surveying the moist landscape and grey skies, my worst fears are confirmed. This is not a brief shower.
I better go check the wedding grounds. However, it’s raining too hard for this sweatshirt to provide sufficient protection. Stepping back inside, I open the entry closet ruefully. No way they would have an umbrella handy at this desert property.
My suspicion is confirmed, but I do find my husband’s golf clubs, complete with a large umbrella attached to the side. In the Midwest, it seems like he gets caught out on the rain while golfing once a month, so this item is now an essential part of his equipment.
Back outside, I pop open the broad canopy, and step out from under to the porch awning into the damp morning humidity. The heavy rain drops immediately begin a steady drumming on the taught nylon top of the umbrella. My sneakers squish across the well-manicured wet grass, sinking in below their rubber tread, the loose white laces quickly soaking up water and turning brown with mud. How much did it rain last night?
Walking gingerly across the moist earth, I turn the corner around a row of barrel cacti, and look out onto the patio of paver stones inlaid with fine sand, where the ceremony is to take place later this evening. We arranged the chairs for our 80 anticipated guests last night to make sure we had enough, and were happy with the layout.
At the time, it seemed harmless to leave them out overnight. Now the turquoise cloth cushions have absorbed the precipitation like a sponge, and the white painted wood of the frames are beaded with water. Picking up one of the seat pads, I give it a gentle squeeze, and watch in dismay as a stream of liquid pours out from the corner seam. A big, blue sponge indeed.
Renting a tent wasn’t even a check-box option when we purchased this wedding package. They had a few folding table umbrellas, but the shear cloth seemed more applicable for sunlight mitigation than water repellency.
Taking in the full gravity of the situation, tears start streaming down my cheeks, matching the drops rolling off the umbrella I’m holding. This is supposed to be the best day of my life. It’s not off to a good start. Hopefully, that tramp on the weather forecast is correct, and the blazing desert sun appears soon to dry things out.
October – Panama City, Florida
Turning my rusty pick-up truck in a wide arc, the heavy tires crunch on the crushed shells of the driveway before coming to a stop. I’m always apprehensive when I return home after a big storm.
Dropping down from the raised seat, my large boots land on the same white covering. To my surprise, the earth feels drier than I would expect after several days of heavy rains, but the coarse shards over sandy dirt do drain well. The air is cool for this time of the fall on the Florida Gulf Coast, a lingering result of the storm front that just rolled through.
Surveying the front yard yields a hopeful assessment. There are a few palm fronds in the lawn, but these fall down at a rapid rate during normal times. It seems like I’m always picking up a wheelbarrow load of debris whenever I mow the yard.
Before entering the house, I lap the grounds. The plywood is still securely mounted over all the windows. Another promising sign.
There are more branches in the back yard, along with some downed coconuts. Several of these orbs landed in the pool, crumpling up the protective barrier in spots, despite the high tension I put into this blue plastic sheet with ratchet straps at all four corners. My first hurricane at this house, I left the cover off the small in-ground pool, worried it would blow away, and spent the rest of the summer clearing fine sand out of the pool’s filter.
Entering by the back door, I unlock the knob, deadbolt, and a supplemental padlock looped though a heavy metal hinge I installed in preparation for these annual weather events.
Stepping inside reveals the musty, thick air characteristic of a house which has been sealed up for a week in a humid climate. This rear door enters into the small kitchen, old cracking linoleum and cheap wood panel cabinets. I’m going to redo this space for my wife when I get the time, and money.
It’s dark inside, on account of all the windows being boarded up. Scanning the counter, I notice the green glowing digits of the microware clock are still on, and displaying the correct time. That’s odd, we always lose power during these major hurricanes. That’s why I was forced to throw out eight good pounds of crawfish, and a bunch of other items from the fridge, before we left.
My family had a big boil the night before we left, one of my favorite meals, but barely made a dent in my haul from a recent fishing trip. I hate to see that tasty seafood go to waste, but as usual, there was only 36 hours’ notice on the evacuation order.
I don’t even want to ask for the bill back at the motel back in Orlando, the tourist capital of the south. I’ve been hunkered down there for the past four nights, with my wife and two teenage daughters, eating delivery food. Usually, we go to my in-law’s house in Montgomery, Alabama; they almost never get hit. However, this late-season event was supposed to a massive hurricane, on an inland track, so essentially the entire Florida panhandle, and residents in several other states up to 200 miles inland, were asked to flee their homes.
Despite being scrawny, my daughters eat like bears before hibernation, and I can only imagine how much online shopping my wife did while cooped up in the room with nothing but her cell phone for a week. Plus, since we were in the land of entertainment, the one day the clouds weren’t unleashing, I was obligated to bring them to a theme park.
Not sure who visits those establishments on a regular basis, but they are way too rich for my blood. I was able to convince the girls we should attend one of the more affordable parks, rather than the tourist traps of Disney World and Universal Studios, but ticket prices were still pretty steep. But the real scam is the concessions: food, toys, booze, games, they get you at every turn. Personally, I’d much rather attend a Saints NFL game for the same price.
I’ve lived in Florida long enough now to know that hurricane season comes with the territory. I spend a fortune on supplemental insurance for our modest house, but there’s really no other option. At least it looks like the place avoided any damage this time. Time to get it back in shape, so my family can return home.
Heading to the small closet off the kitchen, I pull out the 6-foot step ladder, along with my screw gun, and a few other necessary tools. I’ve done this operation enough by now that I have a pretty refined process. I always get one of my coworkers at the warehouse to help with boarding up; the full 4-foot by 8-foot plywood sheets required to cover our windows with sufficient overlap are too unruly to hold up and secure for one person. However, taking them down is a little easier, as long as I’m careful.
Turning on the small shop radio, I dial it into the local news station. I like this portable tuner device; it clips right to my tool belt, two double AA batteries providing enough speaker power for any work session I’m willing to take on these days. I always seem to be a little more productive with some lively zydeco playing, but want to hear what the response personnel are saying about the impact of the recent hurricane.
Thus far, according to what I heard on the radio in the truck driving over, property damage was minimized. That definitely matches my own observations here.
Starting on back of the house, I extract most of the screws from the ground, but need to get up on the ladder to release the upper mounting anchors.
Bottom and sides of the sheet free, I set up the 6-foot step ladder at one edge of the window. Working my way across the top, using my long arms I remove four screws, roughly one each foot. Now, I can see the sheet of wood start to sag and peel off the house. This gap reveals the multitude of holes in vinyl siding, causing me to grimace. Sure, my windows are protected, but in this salty air I can only imagine how quickly these minute penetrations in the exterior will promote decay, not just in the siding, but also the structural studs underneath.
Those fancy hurricane window shutters, with permanent brackets, would be much better for the building, and faster to install, but I can’t afford such amenities.
Quickly hopping down and shuffling ladder several feet to the right along the wall, I clamor back up with screw gun in left hand. Starting in the middle of the window, I extract another screw, then another. Only two anchor points keep this temporary protective wood sheet from falling to the ground. Now comes the tricky part.
Switching the screw gun to my right hand, I grasp the top edge of the plywood with the fingers of my left, wedging them down into the gap as far as possible, then latch on. As the second-to-last screw nears release from the board, the plywood’s full weight loads onto this threaded rod of metal, angling it downward, and causing the Phillips head bit to slip off target, threatening to strip the screw head. This is where my left arm strength gets tested.
Tugging upwards as much as possible with this appendage, the shear load on the screw is temporarily released, allowing me to extract this mounting point the final few turns. My grip with the left hand gives out, and the entire particle board sheet swivels around its last mounted corner, the opposite end hitting the ground a second later. One opening done, three more to go.
Finish the rear, I grab my ladder and tools, heading to the front windows. Without the whining buzz of the screw gun, I can more easily focus on the radio report. On the ground, accounts from those returning home, combined with data gathered at weather stations, continue to suggest that the storm was very mild, with some locations receiving almost no precipitation, and winds remaining under 50-mph, not even close to the 74-mph minimum required to earn hurricane classification status.
That’s odd, considering how much hype there was surrounding this storm. Usually, that counter-clockwise spinning drags significant moisture from the Gulf of Mexico, then deposits in aggressively along the coast when the storm makes landfall. I’ve heard rumor that these hurricanes have a low-pressure eye at their center, where atmospheric conditions can actually be quite pleasant. Maybe that’s what passed through Panama City, though I don’t remember such a phenomenon ever happening before.
Rounding to corner of the house, I look across the road, and see my neighbors, all eight of them. I have no idea what any of these slackers do for work, or how they all fit in that small stucco structure. We don’t hang out, or even talk.
They never evacuate their house, avoiding the TV warnings, posted signage, and even police sweeps leading up to each event. Right now, they are lounging in folding lawn chairs, huddled around a Styrofoam cooler and a small charcoal grill. It’s as if this is just another day at the beach for them.
This is the seventh time I’ve boarded up this home in the last decade. Maybe I should explore a different housing location.
As I wrestle down the last heavy plywood sheet, 5/8” thick is supposedly required for sufficient hurricane wind protection, I think about how silly this activity is. I’ve spent a month’s pay or more, to vacate my family from an area that just incurred nothing worse than a summer shower.
Pinching my finger between the particle board and the siding for the third time this morning, I make the decision. I’m converting to a hurricane “no-evacer” moving forward.
​
December – Silver Spring, Maryland
I stare at a trio of computer screens in front of me, bright pixels offering distinct contrast in the dimly lit room.
The large center monitor shows a map of the entire contiguous United States, with generous extensions of the view window over the major oceans on the left and right, and more cropped, but still broad coverage into Canada to the north, and Mexico to the south. The land is earth tones of tan and brown, state borders marked in black. Overlaid on this virtual landscape are small patches of neon green, pink, and blue, identifying rain, ice, and snow respectively, as currently identified by the National Doppler Radar network of 160 dispersed stations.
The flanking right display is slightly smaller, and much more colorful. It depicts a flattened oval representing the entire globe, continental land masses in white, while the water appears in a psychedelic rainbow of color that looks like a tie-dye t-shirt. Ocean surface temperatures.
The left screen, one which I reference often when making weather predictions, also shows a U.S. map, this time in neutral grey, with both bold state, and finer county, perimeters denoted. There are 900 discrete data points dispersed across the country, identified by a dot that can be selected individually. Sadly, I can probably name over half of these nationwide locations from memory. With a click of the mouse, I can toggle between temperature, wind, precipitation, and visibility, all updated every 5 minutes.
This is one of the most important weeks of the year for weather forecasting, if that’s what you want to call it. The dictionary definition identifies forecasting as prediction based on trends. Fortunately for our profession, there’s nothing in the verbiage about accuracy level, or use of a rigorous scientific method.
It’s five days before Christmas, and everyone wants weather insights pronto. While our daily predictions are never guaranteed, on a random weekday in March, no one cares if we’re off on the high temperature of the day by 5°F, or if the anticipated afternoon showers come a half hour earlier than suggested. However, this time of year everything is magnified, and scrutinized.
Commercial airlines clamor for the precise path of early winter storms, so they can inform passengers and adjust flight schedules accordingly. Retail businesses want to know if the skies will be clear enough for them to put product displays outside to enhance their store footprint, thus boosting holiday sales. And, of course, every child in the country suddenly takes an interest in our work, begging the heavens to anoint them with a white Christmas, even if they live in Hawaii.
We can’t win this time of year.
Our team here at NOAA headquarters is currently monitoring three major systems across the U.S., leaving the rest of the local details to satellite locations throughout the country. If we can get the big pieces of the puzzle right, that gives others the best chance for accurate climate analysis at the micro level.
Weather forecasting is a mix of science, art, and even a little luck. I often use the Las Vegas Strip analogy to describe the required skill set, and thus my job. Imagine mashing the calculated mathematical odds of a casino blackjack dealer, with the performance skills of a stripper at a club down the street, and sprinkle in a little drunken luck from the gambler himself. Yep, that’s our profession in a nutshell.
At least we have better tools than when I started out in the industry several decades ago.
We’re about to get one of our key pieces of real-time data, which only comes in twice per day. In perfectly timely coordination, nearly 100 weather balloons get launched from dispersed ground stations throughout the country. These inflatables, with attached disposable instrumentation, float slowly into upper stratosphere over the course of two hours, collecting and sending back data on air pressure, temperature, relative humidity, and wind speed/direction every second.
That creates a pretty accurate understanding of the atmospheric conditions at a given point in time, but is pretty useless on its own.
Such information is, however, one of the most important inputs to our supercomputer. This powerful device, capable of executing quadrillions of calculations per second, is about five million times more powerful than your standard work laptop offering.
You would think this computational behemoth could offer a fighting chance at knowing if it’s going to be raining or sunny when you open your front door tomorrow morning. Not yet, but don’t worry, we’re refining our analysis techniques daily.
The output of this high-powered computing algorithm is a jumbled mass of data, unintelligible 1’s and 0’s. To actually interpret the results, these digital values are converted into visual imagery, typically graphs, maps, and charts, that are much easier to view and understand for us humans. These composite diagrams form the basis for our predictive probabilistic meteorology work, hence the numerous colorful display screens in front of me.
Sometimes this imagery is even communicated out to the general public via the standard media outlets. Personally, I’m always skeptical to provide such complex data to commoners without sufficient context. It seems like everyone online fancies themselves as experts in fields they know nothing about these days.
In college, I never thought I would end up down this meteorology career track.
I distinctly remember one specific class where I had to memorize the different classifications of clouds, all ten separate types. It felt like I was learning Latin, or participating in choir class, rather than conducting scientific analysis.
Cirrus, altostratus, cumulonimbus. Who knew those puffy white items I stared up at while lying on my back in the grass as a kid could be so diverse and complex? And that’s just the cloud structures.
Speaking of staring, I’ve been monitoring these screens in front of me for two hours, and still have no idea where the jet stream is headed. Despite all the different techniques used, one thing all climatologist and meteorologists will agree on is that the movement of the jet stream is critical to weather patterns, not just in North American, but around the world.
This atmospheric highway, where wind speeds can reach 250 mph, flows from west to east across our nation. Dislocations north and south in this track drive temperature gradients and shift low/high pressure systems, which are the foundation of storm generation.
Despite all the discrete atmospheric measurement data points, and powerful analytic tools available to us here at NOAA, it’s still impossible to know for sure if the current trough in the jet stream is going to push down further into Texas, or flatten out, thus exaggerating the developing ridge across the Great Lakes.
Typing in a few lines of code on my keyboard, inputs adjust on the jet stream’s movement characteristics, and the supercomputer starts cranking out another simulation. The model results should be available in a few minutes. Good time to grab a soda from the vending machine.
I’m rooting for a continued jet stream dip southward, which could allow the children in Albuquerque, New Mexico to be happy when they wake up Christmas morning. Historically, there’s less than a 10% chance they’ll have over an inch of frozen white precipitation on the ground this time of year, but maybe this once in a decade occurrence will materialize. Who knows?