Before central air conditioning or computers, my mother created weather calendars.
She may have been motivated by a wish to predict perfect days for bobbing in Lake George. Perhaps she lived in dread of storms that threatened mayhem, particularly when she was the only adult in residence; or maybe she wanted to brace herself for facing four boisterous kids stuck inside when playing outdoors was impossible. However her habit formed, from this trove of weather data my mother developed mantras. Chief among them: “August is always iffy.”
The shifting weather patterns in recent years would have confounded my mother, but living on a large mountain lake imprinted on our family a respect for nature’s force. Gathering clouds were not to be ignored. Boaters would hug the shore, or make beelines for their docks if the clouds seemed particularly fierce. Whitecaps were predictors; water smooth as glass signaled conditions ideal for skiing. If a huge squall arose in the middle of the night, it was down to the dock we surged to retie lines that may have worked themselves loose. Waves crashed over the decks. Once, our sailboat was launched onto the rocks.
We didn’t ignore nature’s signs, but lived in harmony with them. Just as we expected daddy-long-legs to occupy the swimsuits dripping dry on the clothesline, we gave little thought to mouse droppings found in drawers after a long, cold winter. If we had to turn on wall heaters in autumn, we knew they would smell like burning dust. Mountain life, not sanitized, informed us.
These days we look down and check phones to tell us which way the wind is blowing. I’d rather look up, drop a blade of grass, and see where it flies. Let’s draw suns or threatening cloud pictures on the calendar, wait thirty days, and see what we can see.
This year could be better than the last, but don’t hold your breath: August is always iffy. (c)
