Temperature Is Relative

It’s funny how different bodies react to weather this time of year. Take a gander next time you’re in a public parking lot and study folks wandering to and from vehicles. You’ll see eccentric sorts wearing Bermuda shorts and flip-flops like it’s the middle of July. Someone else will cruise from warm store to vehicle in jeans and a sweater-- lips and hands rosy with not a goose bump to indicate it’s below freezing. The woman shuffling to the car parked next to you might be covered Eskimo style so that you can’t tell a human is bundled inside that ski mask, sweatshirt, parka, snow pants, and boots. During your watch, you’ll see every fashion variable in between.

Each family has a mixture of these thermo-types to establish the range. Polar avoiders hate being cold and layer outdoor wear from top to bottom even on mild days. Auto-insulated folks, on the other hand, travel with a heavy coat in the car in case of bad weather but actually put it on only once or twice a winter. As long as those individuals wear long sleeves and pants, they don’t mind the cold wind’s bite, and they stride happily in brisk breezes that cause flags to fly at a 90 degree angle.

How two people with the same genes can have entirely different internal thermostats is a mystery, but it happens often. Schoolteachers see examples daily. Siblings arrive at school-- one in a tee shirt and no jacket while brother or sis sports long johns peeking from edges of multi-layered sweatshirts and jeans. 

Knowing this, remain alert to see who thrives in frigid weather. These folks are never happier than finding themselves somewhere that cool dawns and dusks require folks to wear jackets. Once temperatures go arctic, these individuals are in hog heaven. They come home from hunting, sledding, or feeding cattle with fogged up glasses, icicles hanging from eyebrows or mustaches, and Rudolph-style noses. As they peel away outer layers of clothing, they complain the house is too hot at 68 degrees.

Polar avoiders need to take advantage of such friends when temps plunge. Those early shiverers can stir up soup and cinnamon rolls while frostbite addicts cover heads with Stormy Kromer caps, zip insulated Carhartts, slip into heavy-duty mittens, and grab a big shovel. After an hour or so, the heat lovers can glance outside to see cleared driveways and evenly cut trails to garages and sheds. True cold devotees stay out long enough to scoop good size openings in the yard where pets can relieve themselves. They scrape snow and ice to the point wimpier loved ones could leave coats in the car because they won’t be outside long enough to need them.

This brings to mind a Wyoming road crewman. On a sizzling August day, he answered the question, “Do you prefer working outdoors in summer or winter?” After a moment’s thought, he grinned and said, “Winter. You can always add layers. In summer you’re limited to what you can take off.”

August Fogs Predict Winter Snows!

Daily temperatures may still top the century mark during the next few thirty days, but soon they’ll start dropping. Knowing old Man Winter has already packed his bags and bought his ticket to Kansas compels me to google long-term weather forecasts each year. The irony is that I’ve done this long enough to realize weather predictors have worse batting averages than losing baseball teams. To prepare better for changing seasons, I also consider what meteorological prophets relying on folk wisdom have to say. Since August has just begun, I’ve planned a little experiment to see how accurate those old-timers were when they offered up this maxim, “Count the number of morning fogs in August to predict the number of upcoming winter snows.”

Considering the dismal success rate of professional forecasters, I figure that testing some of my ancestors’ tried and maybe not-so-true maxims can’t steer me any further off course than the Weather Channel does. After all, those generations alive before media started telling me what to think depended on their practical experience of watching nature and noting patterns to thrive and pass on their genes. These people whose survival depended heavily on their ability to anticipate storms have to have some pointers I can use.

Besides, some of those sayings like the one that states we’ll have a snow total that matches the tallest sunflowers makes sense. If we had a wet summer that made our state flower reach gigantic heights, it’s more likely a wet winter with piled up snow will follow. I’m not sure I can make such a big jump with the correlation between the number of August fogs and winter snows. So, I’m going to get scientific to test this prediction.

Every year I think I’ll remember how many mornings I awakened to find the field behind the house hidden by layers of misty, white fog. By the time I hang up January’s new calendar, I forget. So this year, I’m going to jot down those hazy mornings with big  X’s. That way I’ll have a permanent record to back up my not always correct memory. Now, I just have to remember not to toss it when I get my new one.

It wouldn’t hurt to have folks who read this column provide back up. If all of us kept track of those ground hugging clouds for the next few weeks, we could double check one another after the last snow next spring. We’d then see if our long gone relatives were on to something or if their words are as empty as those mists that will soon hide our prairie several mornings this month.

Spring Jig to Snow Shovel Waltz

It’s only been four weeks since Punxsutawney Phil popped out of his burrow on Gobbler’s Knob  at 7:28 a.m. eastern standard  time and didn’t see his shadow. According to legend, believers could do a happy dance because an early spring was just around the corner.  For anyone living in Kansas, that ground hog- inspired jig turned into a long waltz with a snow shovel.

Despite passing days and ample sunshine, many still have three to four foot reminders of the storm that blanketed our landscape and discredited Phil’s prognostication. On Saturday, I noticed clusters of big blue stem peeping through acres of melting snow, but seen from a distance, the prairies still sport a white topcoat.  Old Man winter is hanging on tenaciously despite warm weather’s best efforts to come calling.

Considering that Phil has only a 39% success rate, perhaps those optimistic  high-steppers should have waited to celebrate.  But, after this recent sunny weekend, maybe he was right and spring is in the air as well as in our steps.  If robins have anything to say about it, they’d tell us the rodent was right on and that white frosting on the prairie will soon turn to mud or running streams.

Even though most yards are still snow-covered, I saw at least a dozen red-breasted harbingers of warm weather hopping over a patchwork of grass and snow during my walk to church. I heard more trilling from neighborhood trees and shrubs.  Compared to the silent birds I saw fluffed and huddled during the height of the blizzard, these feathered visitors were an invigorated glee club celebrating the melt.

This robin invasion is a good sign that Phil is right and winter is over.  Daffodil, crocus, and hyacinth blooms will soon punctuate our flower beds.  The runoff from this late snow should produce lovely bouquets that some of us had given up hope of enjoying.

Not only did I relish watching robins scrounge for early worms as I ambled by, tiny streams trickled where the curbs and pavement met.  Watching the water flow on both sides of the road reminded me of narrow creeks I’ve hopped over on outdoor jaunts. I wondered if a listening device monitoring these rivulets would make them sound like rushing torrents.

We can hope this water is meandering its way into local creeks and eventually rivers.  It would be wonderful if the herons that nest nearby had to wade in deep water for their dinner once they return from South America. Won’t they be surprised to serve up dinner without having to fly to  a distant pool.

Whatever water does make it into ponds and streams will fuel a frog chorus as temperatures rise  and darkness falls.  A side benefit of this current sogginess is we can soon sit outside evenings and listen to the clinking ball-bearing sounds of chorus frogs or the bristly leg rubbing imitation that cricket frogs produce or the funny southern drawl of a Woodhouse toad. A little spring moisture gets more than robins singing.

Punxsutawney Phil may have gotten our hopes up that winter was over when he didn’t see his shadow.  However, the moisture from this late storm that changed many a jolly jig into a snow shovel promenade provided optimism for a greener, noisier spring than western Kansans have enjoyed for some time.  

Snow Is Only Fun for People Who Do Not Have to Work in It

        Like my students, I appreciate an occasional snow day.  Waking up to hear the DJ listing my school on the snow day list reminds me of finding an unexpected twenty dollar bill in an old pair of jeans.  It makes my heart smile.

            Immediately I do a mental inventory of the baking supplies.  Good news! Cupboards and canisters contain flour, sugar, shortening, and other goodies for cinnamon rolls, cookies, and bierocks.

 

            On past snow days, we have worked out the division of labor so I baked and made cocoa while my husband did chores and shoveled.  A good deal for me, especially after my experience this last snow.

         Just before this snow began, my husband came down with a virus.  I usually do not know when he feels ill, but this virus had more punch and left him aching and sniffling miserably in his chair. 

         Because the superintendent canceled school the previous night, we slept in Friday morning.  Once up, I realized we had more snow and wind than anticipated.  Since the chore master was side-lined, I bundled up to feed the livestock. I had to shove the door open against a three-foot drift. Outside the door, the real work began. 

            Our thermometer read somewhere between zero and ten degrees, and the weather channel said we had a windchill of –15 to –25 degrees.   Walking to the corral through more knee high drifts woke me up ten times better than the coffee I had gulped earlier. 

A north wind snatched half the hay from the pitchfork before I could get it in the feed bunk.  What normally takes a few minutes took four times more because I had to plow through another drift to move from bale to feed bunk. 

            After hauling buckets of fresh water through the drifts, I had an inkling of what my pioneer ancestors thought about winter storms.  I suspect they did not look forward to them nearly as much as I have in the past.

            All these years my husband has done the outdoor work while I enjoyed the cooking and baking indoors.  By the time I went outside, it was easy to get to the pens to water and feed.

            This snow day opened my eyes.  Snow quadruples work for ranchers, farmers, road crews,  and oil field workers.   Snow is only fun for people who do not have to work in it.

           Kansas pioneers were tough.  They did not have modern conveniences to welcome them when they returned to the house.  If they had water, it was because they hauled it.  If they were warm, it was because they brought in wood, coal, or buffalo chips to burn.  I suspect those who lived above ground had drafty houses, and those who lived below ground knew their next problem had to do with the melt.

          In my case, the electricity stayed on, the walls sheltered us from  chilling winds, and water ran every time I turned on the faucet.  Settlers must have hated snow days.