1969—HITCHHIKING TO FLORIDA—Part 1—

I found the old, yellowing notebook up in the dusty attic:

Please note it is not a “diary”. Diaries are for girls. Therefore it is called “Private Files”.

I had kept a journal since 1962 because I’d read “The Real Diary of A Real Boy” (Henry A. Shute; 1902) at around age nine, and enjoyed it so much I wanted to emulate the author. This involved not only keeping a record of my activities, but also having activities worth recording. Such activities tended to be few and far between, in the suburbs of that time, which were meant to be pristine areas of tranquility and beauty, but inadvertently involved idle hands, and created a devil’s playground, because I craved activities worth recording.

The fact the suburbs involved a freedom from work was not initially seen as a bad thing. Child-labor-laws were created in order to spare children the drudgery of working in factories, and suburbs seemed a refuge from such slavery. However children are in fact curious about work and like to see it. On a small farm the child trots behind his father and soon knows every chore, long before they are strong and able. But in a suburb the child often lives in a void, for often the father is gone.

Much ado has been made of poor children in the inner city growing up without fathers, and the harm it causes, however I believe harm was also occurring among the more wealthy people, able to escape the city for plush and yet fatherless suburbs. This was especially insidious in the 1950’s and 1960’s because people didn’t see the harm coming, until the children grew up and many expressed their loathing towards what they’d had to endure.

This is not to say all families suffered. Some fathers made sure to devote time to their families the moment they got home from work. However it was far more typical for a man to feel exhausted, and that he deserved a break, and for him to collapse in an easy chair, crack a beer, and watch the news. Many men were oblivious to the level of dissatisfaction their hard work was creating, and were blindsided when their wives requested a divorce. When I was in grade school divorce was rare, but by the time I was in high school it had become common.

This is not to say everyone experienced divorce. I greatly admire the families that remained strong through those times. They need to write books about how they managed it. But my tale is about a family that slid into dysfunction, and mostly about me.

I could (and have) go (gone) on at great length about causes. Whether you call it Karma or “the sins of forefathers”, actions have reactions, and it is perfectly logical that one winds where one wound up, even if it is an illogical place to be. One can justify being illogical, but why bother? So I shall skip all that. Instead I’ll just introduce you to myself on January first, in the year 1969. I was a junior in high school, but still fifteen years old. (I change names to protect, but all else is verbatim, including misspellings, from my “private files.”)

“Well, a new year has started, and so far it has been a blast. Last night I walked over to the Joyson’s house and had a little mental new years party.

Before I came I had 3 cans of beer so I was pretty happy. I got Izzy out of Bed, and we sat around listening to the radio waiting. Ruth came down and took my fire crackers except for one pack. I thought it was a joke and she’d bring them back but as midnight got closer I got worryed. We went outside and Izzy followed her tracks up to the Docport’s. It was too close to twelve to get them from her so I sat in the Glazier’s driveway and threw my one pack in the air. Then I had can 4 and can 5 of beer and went into the Docport’s. Boy was I drunk. Everything got blurry, well not that but sort of muffled. I said happy new year to Mrs. Docport and Mr. Docport and sat around there for a while. Then we went back to the Joyson’s and Ruth was there. We started throwing snowballs at each other. I jumped at Ruth and gave her a New Year’s kiss. We made a agreement that I’d let her hit me with a snow ball in the face if she’d tell me where my firecrackers were. She made a giant snow ball and hit me with it and then told me where my firecrackers were, then followed a snowball fight. It was great. I was so drunk I didn’t feel cold or hurt. Izzy and Ruth peppered me as I threw, pretty wildly, at them. Then Mr. Joyson told Izzy and Ruth to go in. Ruth did but Izzy stayed as I set off my firecrackers. The first pack I threw into the green. Bang Bang Snap Bnng ffffffftt Bang Snap fffftt Bang The second pack It lit, brought it back to throw BANG it went off right by my ear. Bang…BangBang I dropped (it) right by my feet, also by Izzy’s. I ran up to Izzy’s house, he ran, slipping and falling, into the green. Shit it was funny. I was laughing my balls off. We went into the house and talked. My right ear was ringing like anything. Nothing much happened after that, the snow had changed to rain when I walked home. I got sopped.

———-

Well, I got up at 7:30 but dozed until 11:00. For the rest of the day I sat around waiting for Izzy to go bowling with me. I had no hang over. Izzy called up at 5:00 but it was too late.

School starts tomorrow. Shit, vacation was a blast this year. I didn’t do much but what I did do was a blast.

That’s all.

Looking back fifty-five years from the future, I feel I should mention three things.

First, drinking five beers was not typical, and indeed this may have been a first, which made it worth writing down. Apparently I had obtained a six-pack, but I can’t remember how. I have vague memories of sometimes convincing older siblings to buy me booze, and there is even a slight chance my mother and stepfather, (being very liberal and not yet mugged by what permissiveness resulted in), may have bought me a six-pack with the understanding I’d spend New Year’s at home. I had a disgusting ability to bat my eyes innocently and agree to rules I had no intention of keeping, at that time. It now shames me but at the time I thought I was crafty.

Second, Izzy and Ruth were formerly next door neighbors, and our trio created a sort of awkwardness, for my best friend’s sister was “the girl next door.” Izzy could rhapsodize to me about some girl he fantasized was Super-woman, but if I said there was the slightest thing admirable about his sister he gagged.

In any case, when my mother remarried, the spring before, we moved away, and I should mention that “walking to the Joyson’s house” now involved two miles. Basically, when walking home after midnight in the rain, I’d pace from the start of Conant Road in Weston, through the town center, and then down Concord Road, up and over the Jesuit “Weston College” Hill, and then down Sudbury Road nearly to the Wayland border. It was roughly two miles to the Joyson’s house, and two miles home again, and I thought little of it. Oh, to have such strength again!

Third, the reason Izzy was unavailable to go bowling on Sunday may well have been because he was doing his homework, something I often didn’t bother with. He was subject to discipline I was “free” from, and of course he got better grades. His family wasn’t shattered by divorce, and had a stability that made it very attractive to me, yet at the same time I liked to brag about how “free” I was. The truth was I lacked guidance, and I had no one who I felt comfortable going to, when I needed help. In fact, when it came to discipline, I largely had to be my own sergeant.

This led to me doing quite a number of stupid things because, “it is something kids my age do.” It was as if I had a check-list, and read, “fifteen-year-olds break street lights”, and therefore felt compelled to go out and break a street light, even though it seemed like a stupid thing to do. Other things, such as drinking five beers, didn’t seem so stupid and instead seemed like “a blast.” Likely the most illegal thing I did was to go into Boston and buy fireworks in the tiny Chinatown and then resell them out in the suburbs. Likely the most dangerous thing I did was to go joy-riding without a learner’s permit or even a single driving lesson from an adult. Likely the most destructive thing I did was to smoke pot, but at this point I had only smoked a relatively weak marijuana once, hanging around with my older siblings the summer before. Yet all these things largely were “things kids my age do”, and a sort of “rite of passage”, and also were things I could brag to Izzy that I was “free” to do. I think I needed to brag because I felt inferior. In many ways I admired and envied him and his family.

How I felt about school comes across clearly in the next entry.

Thurs. January 2nd, 19689

Well, only the second day of 1968 and already I’m bored. I walked into school and bang! I was turned off. It is such a bore. I can’t communicate in school, for some reason I freeze up and can’t make too many friends.

After school in wreastleing I got killed. I really worked out. I weigh 146 right now. There are three weight classes I want to get in. 140 , pretty impossible, 147 probible, and 154 “if I get fat” wieght class. I’m sort of afraid of losing wieght because it might stunt my growth. As soon as wreastling is over I’m going to put it on.

Tomorrow I’m going to try to get in good with Ruth. I want to be a real friend of her but not realy a lover. I sort of want to wait with her for some reason.

Its pretty cold and dry out. Well thats all that happened today.

It is difficult to describe how boring school was, and also how schooling had a debilitating effect beyond mere boredom. I felt cowed. I was paralyzed. Rather than increasing my activity it decreased it. I hadn’t been encouraged enough, I suppose, and had been discouraged too often, and had reached a point where it felt like I myself was not allowed. To be myself I had to run away, find some other place outside of school.

There is a month-long blank in my “private files” at this point. I had decided there was something “phony” about my former discipline, which demanded I write in my journal every day. What was phony was that I would fall behind two weeks, and write “fake” entries to catch up. I had a discipline in keeping my diary I never displayed when it came to doing homework, but I became free of that self-imposed discipline when I decided it was “phony”.

“Phony”, as I recall, became a word which Izzy and I used a lot. In a rare example of scholarship I had actually read “Catcher In The Rye” in an English class I shared with Izzy, and the one thing we got out of it was the character Holden Caufield’s scorn towards “phony” adults. However I turned it back on myself and scorned any thing I did which appeared “phony.”

This story would rapidly proceed backwards through a series of flashbacks if I dwelt on what prompted me to become “more real”. Let it suffice to say I was troubled by opposing impulses, one of which loved to dream and fantasize, and the other of which loathed liars. At this point in my life school involved too much pretending you were someone you weren’t. You seemingly were suppose to swagger, but I couldn’t fake a swagger when I felt everyone would laugh if I did it. I had to get away.

When I got away I could do stupid things and humiliate myself and somehow the consequences were not so everlasting. For example, I liked to hang around with my older siblings because they were all out of high school, and I felt no word would get back to the hallways if I was a jerk. And one thing I felt I had to do, because “kids my age did it”, was to grapple and grope with the opposite sex to see “how far I could get.” I often felt very uncomfortable midst these experiments, because it was very obvious that no real romance and love was involved, but at the same time it was something you were expected to do.

A particularly absurd situation arose when I somehow included myself in a party involving my older sister’s friends, all around five years older than I was, and found myself in a dark room with loud music where everyone was “necking”. In other words, they were kissing, which is a fairly tame activity by the corrupt standards of 2023, but, by the puritanical standards of small-town1968, was practically an orgy.

And so it was I found myself “necking” with a woman five years older than I was, We boys called that “getting to first base.” I made several attempts to “get to second base” but the woman made it clear that wasn’t going to happen. Once that had been determined, I got bored. What was the point of all this slobbering? My chief desire then became to extract myself from the situation, even as the woman kept kissing. After suffering for what seemed to me like a very long time, I decided I saw an escape, and called out to my older sister, who was somewhere in the darkness, “Hey! Didn’t Mom say we had to be home at nine?” This was so obviously an uncool thing to say I immediately blushed, but it worked: I got the hell out of there, and no news of this debacle got back to the halls of my highschool. At the school such blunders seemed forbidden; no learning-experiences were allowed.

I couldn’t get away through the month of January, and after five weeks of school this entry appears on February 1, when I should have been happy because it was a Saturday and there was no school.

There then follows another long, blank period in the journal. Initially it was because school was proceeding through the dreary days of winter, and there was nothing to record but my paralysis. I seemed to have a complete inability to do homework. Now I can’t help but roll my eyes at myself. Why didn’t I just do the damn job?

Then I was rescued by the weather, and a miscalculation on the part of the town. Explaining their mistake will involve a digression.

On the east side of Weston, where Route 20 crossed Route 128, were two impressive quarries blasted five hundred feet down into solid granite by the Massachusetts Broken Stone company. The racket and rock-dust made by this industry annoyed the rather wealthy inhabitants of Weston, and therefore, when the company requested permission to start a third quarry on their land, the town fathers would not allow it. It was a death knell for the place, for the first two quarries had gone down nearly as far as it was possible to dig and still have the digging be profitable. They had a few years to go before they’d have to find a new place, but had no reason to be nice to the town fathers any longer, and it was at this point they stopped helping Weston snowplow its roads.

Up until that point there had been many snowstorms where Weston was the only town whose schools were able to stay open, to the smug satisfaction of grown-ups and the complete misery of schoolboys like myself.

I can remember many snowy mornings listening to the no-school-announcements on the radio, from A to Z. When they got to the “W’s” I began fervently praying, and then was devastated when “Weston” went unmentioned among the cancelations.

The disappointment nudged me towards Atheism, until someone suggested that the fact school wasn’t cancelled might not be due to God, but due to the fact we had massive quarry trucks rumbling around town, whereas other towns only had underfunded road crews and, in those days, rather pathetically small dump trucks with immobile blades in the front. Weston’s road crew had the most pathetic trucks of all, despite the wealth of the tax-payers, because the town could always count on the quarry for help. But then the town didn’t reciprocate, and help the quarry in return, and abruptly no help was forthcoming from the mine. Thrown back onto its own resources the town, (at that point one of the most wealthy towns in the world), did a pitiful job cleaning its roads, to my everlasting joy.

The first storm was known as “The Lindsey Storm” due to the chaos it caused in New York City, (“Lindsey” was the mayor.) The snow surprised the forecasters, and piled up in the Weston Hills more than in Boston, and measured more than twenty inches in my stepfather’s driveway.

My father had always insisted we shovel our driveway by hand at our old house, but my stepfather had a man come and plow his circular drive, and I had only to shovel the front walk and around the mailbox by the road, and tidy-up a place where he turned his car around. As I did this work it did seem odd to me our drive was far more clear of snow than the town road, but the storm had hit on a weekend, and I felt certain the roads would be clear by Monday. To my delight the roads were not clear enough for school to open until Wednesday. And that Friday school was let out for winter vacation, which meant there was no school for nine further days. As school reopened on Monday the 24th snow was starting to fall as a storm approached from the south, and this storm is remembered as “The Hundred Hour Snow.” It stalled off the coast and just dumped snow hour after hour. Many places received more than thirty inches. Most fell on the 25th, but it kept right on falling and accumulating until the 28th, and we had no school until Friday that week.

In essence, after February 7, we had a total of five days of school in three weeks. I was not inclined to be an Atheist any more.

I wish I had jotted some entries in my “private files” during that time, but I had gone from being too paralyzed to write to being too busy to write. Schools might have been closed, but that did not keep me from trotting two miles to Izzy’s house, or keep Izzy from trotting two miles to mine. We had turned sixteen just weeks apart, and were basically boys in men’s bodies, seething with energy. Often what we then did was walk fast together, peppering every telephone pole we passed with snowballs, and talking as fast as we walked, which was activity which likely would look boring in a journal, but had a satisfaction all its own, difficult to describe.

Only one of our shenanigans can I distinctly recall.

The combined snow of two storms was very deep, especially where it had drifted. The first storm’s snow had a thick crust on top, which made it possible to walk through the second storm’s snow, until you broke through the crust. Then the snow was up to your crotch and your feet didn’t even touch the ground. For some insane, adolescent reason this situation challenged Izzy and myself to jump three stories down from a roof into a deep drift. It took us a while to work up our nerve, but when we finally jumped we jumped together, and even from that height our feet didn’t touch the ground. However we then faced an unforeseen problem. We were stuck in snow up to our armpits like nails into a board. It took considerable struggle and time to extract ourselves.

That was the sort of “life lesson” we learned together. It was much more than I ever learned at school, however Izzy was different, because he did his homework and did learn from school. Also Mr. Joyson wasn’t entirely certain he wanted Izzy hanging around with me, learning my sort of “life lesson”.

It wasn’t until the end of March that another entry appears in the journal.

Sunday
March 31st, 1969
   Well its been 2 months since I wrote
last. A auful lot has happened. We had 
5 no school days with two record snow
storms. A lot of stuff happened but
I'm not going to talk about it.

...Yesterday was a blast. I went and
saw "The night they raided Minskies" , a C+
movie, with Izzy. After that we ate at a
a Italian place. When I walked in a
girl said "Hey, the barber shop is across 
the street", I said, "Well actually I'm to
poor get a hair cut". Another said
"I'll give you one for 50¢. I said, "O.K."
She said "Well, er, uh..." It was a real friendly
exchange.

   Later we got mildly drunk and we went
For a joy ride. It was sleeting and
the road was slippery. Once I almost
went off the road. Izzy scared my balls
off by pushing the button that makes the
garage door open automaticly. I thought 
It was my stepfather. He would kill
If he found out I was joy riding.

Today was beautiful but rather 
boring. Tomorrow is monday but I'm not
to depressed.

I should note that our interest in the movie was adolescent. Largely the theme was above our heads, but a woman did appear bare breasted, which was unheard of in movies we saw up to that time, which demonstrates how puritanical our society was.

My “long hair” likely barely covered the tops of my ears, and was more likely due to simple neglect than any desire to look like a hippy or make any sort of political statement. The fact I dared banter with the girls at the “Italian place” shows how I needed to escape my town and school, before I so much as dared to talk.

“Mildly drunk” likely means Izzy and I secreted a bottle of my stepfather’s beer from the refrigerator and shared it. It was typical of Izzy to play the sort of prank he did by hitting the button in the car that opened the garage door. I recall how horrified I was, and telling Iz to duck down below the dashboard, and him laughing. Lastly, the reason the following Sunday was “beautiful but rather boring” was likely (at least partially) due to Izzy staying home and doing his homework.

Two weeks of silence in the diary is then followed by the first mention of Florida. The journey is called “my third Take-Off” because the summer before I’d been on two adventures; first I hitchhiked to Nantucket, and later I hitchhiked to friends up in Canada.

The Beat goes On

Sunday April 13, 1969

   Well I took the first step on my 
third Take-off today. I sent a letter to
my grandparents telling them I might come
and visit and asking them if I could. If
I'm lucky they'll get the letter and send 
back a reply before friday. I plan 
to leave on Saturday but I can 
go on Sunday.

I'm wicked mixed up about going.
I sorta want to lie in bed all
vacation and have to forse myself
to go out and do something.

Today --- in fact this whole
 weekend I spent raking
the lawn. I think I might have
got a slight tan.

Shit thats all.

“The lawn” was a considerable area of grass inside my stepfather’s circular drive, holding four apple trees. I may not have done my homework but I was not without usefulness.

“A tan” was a status symbol in that wealthy town during the winter and spring. It suggested you had traveled to the tropics.

I became busier than I ever became doing homework, preparing for my adventure. I carefully packed several changes of cool weather clothes and warm weather clothes, meticulously plotted out my route in a road atlas, and also worked making an elaborate hitchhiker’s sign I could alter as I progressed southward. The top placard read “Florida” in large letters with “via” in smaller letters beneath it. Then, attached to the upper placard by two loose-leaf-folder rings, were a whole series of placards with the names of cities on them. Therefore my sign would read “Florida via NYC” until I reached New York City, where I’d change the sign to read “Florida via Philladelphia”. In Philladelphia I’d change the sign to read “Florida via Baltimore”, and so on and so forth all the way down the coast. On my way back I would flip the top sign over, so it read “Boston via” and the reuse all the bottom signs on my way north.

I hoped the trip would take three days each way but planned on four. If it took four days I’d only stay a day at my grandparents. On the road I planned to stay at YMCA’s, which cost $5.00 a night, and back then you could get a decent meal for under a dollar, but I wanted a little extra so I planned on $5.00 a day for food. I took $80.00 from my savings account to cover the nine day vacation, and hid $60.00 in my right shoe.

Friday, April 18, 1969
   Well, I'm going tomorrow and shit it pouring.
Its suppose to rain tonight and all tomorrow. I'm
wicked scared about having to stand in the rain
all day tomorrow. I have to get a ride far enough
south so I'll be out of the rain.

   I'm leaving tomorrow at 7:00. I want
to get to Richmond tomorrow. That's about 600 miles.

                    -------

   April 18
Izzy came over at 7:30 and I havent 
been able to get to sleep early like
I wanted to. Hell, its been fun as
all get out but I need the sleep.
While I've been trying to write he
has been playing my tape recording.
Also I strained my back today and I
want to soak it.

   Shit, its 11:45, I've got to get to
get to sleep. I hope it stops raining.

 Saturday   April 19, 1969
Right now I'm in Richmond  Va. at
the Y.M.C.A. I made a all time distance 
record for me today.

   I got up at 6:00 and talked with 
Izzy. (He stayed over night because it rained
to hard for him to ride his bike home.) I ate 
breakfast, said bye to Iz, and took off.
Pop drove me to the Mass Pike, gave me 5$
extra, and left.

   Suddenly I was alone, standing in the
drizzle, wondering what the hell I was
doing. It just didn't make any sence.
Why was I giving up a quiet restful
vacation for an uncomfterble stand in the
rain? I didn't really know

I went on writing until nearly midnight, stopping only for a sandwich, penning seven more pages meticulously detailing the 9 rides it took to reach Richmond, describing people and the landscapes, and calculating my miles-per-hour and miles-per-ride. But, beyond now pointing out, 54 years later, that this was the same self who seldom passed in homework, (and, when he did, seldom passed in more than a paragraph), I’ll leave the rest of the entry for the next part of this story. I prefer to end with the above because I simply like the writing. A different me had mysteriously appeared.

The post is continued here:

1969—HITCHHIKING TO FLORIDA—Part 2—

BRIEF OR BRUISING

What a difference a day makes. First, here is my woodpile before the snow.

And here is the same woodpile this morning:

This is the sort of heavy, wet snow that causes weathermen to have fits, because it’s flakes are right on the verge of melting into rain, and in fact, if they fall a couple hundred more feet through above freezing air, then they are rain. For example Wilton, roughly eleven miles to our north, only had a couple inches of snow mixed with rain, and they are only a couple hundred feet lower. Meanwhile due south eleven miles, down much lower (where the “Flatlanders” live) in Townsend, Massachusetts, they saw no snow at all until at the very end. But we got a foot and a half (46 cm).

The snow was so sticky it took down branches and even entire trees, and as I start this post we have no power and my laptop is down to 20% power. I have no connection to the web, though my phone can still deliver texts, albeit very, very slowly. My oldest son, who snowplows in the winter, said Peterborough is a shambles, and he was one of the last trucks to weave through the fallen limbs and arcing electrical lines before route 124 was shut down. He had to travel to Jaffrey, which wasn’t much better, to come home. In essence the communities on the shoulders of Mount Monadnock were just high enough to get snow rather than rain, and got clobbered.

It might not seem fair that we get clobbered while people ten miles away get off Scot free, but it goes with the territory. People who live here long enough adapt. For example, as I began this post I was warm by my man-cave wood-stove, with my coffee cup atop the stove (rather than in the microwave) to rewarm my brew. My wife had pots of snow melting on both wood-stoves to flush the toilet with, plus a pot melting beside the wood-stove to wash dishes with. She could cook because, even though the electric “sparker” doesn’t light the burners of our propane stove, we can use a match to light them. We have candles for light. So having no power doesn’t slow us down much.

What slows me down is the thought of shoveling the front walk. Such snow is like wet cement. I’m pushing seventy and smoked too much when younger, so my armchair has its charms.

I did eventually push myself to dodder outside and shovel a pathetic path down the very center of the steps, and then walk through the deep snow to my jeep. It’s embarrassing to admit, but even walking through deep snow gets me huffing and puffing. I shoveled the plow-created snowbanks in front of my Jeep a minimum amount, and then clambered in. A good thing about a Jeep is that you don’t have to shovel much; you just put the vehical in four-wheel-drive, and go!

I drove to the nearby town center to see if they had power, and if I could make my weekly deposit at the bank. It’s not much of a center. It doesn’t even have a traffic light. But it does have a blinking orange light, and it was dark. I knew that meant the power was off and the bank would be closed. Oddly, there was a line of cars going through its ATM machine; I suppose the automatic teller runs by a battery.

Both the local market and local gas stations knew better than to be closed at a time when business was bound to be especially good, (for no one wanted to drive far). Both had generators humming. The market was doing a brisk business in “breakfast sandwiches” for the people who couldn’t cook at home, and the gas station was doing a brisk business in gasoline for those who did have generators. There are plenty of people who are prepared for power outages, but even those who lack generators need gasoline for their snow blowers. Driving further I saw snow blowers in action, and have to admit they looked sad. Rather than shooting powdery snow thirty feet away they were barely able to curve a limp arc of white molasses five feet.

Plows weren’t doing much better. They would get halfway down a drive and the weight of the snow would be so great the truck couldn’t budge it. My son said the trick was to angle the plow and swerve to the side halfway down the drive, and then back up, and then proceed straight ahead until you needed to angle the plow again. Plowing took much longer.

As the snow came down heavily yesterday it became obvious the plow wasn’t going to make it to my Childcare in time to clear the entry and drive for the parents who would soon arrive to pick up their children. When younger I might have gone out and shoveled like a madman, but now I’m too old for such heroics. What I did instead was drive to and fro and back and forth and in and out until the tires of the Jeep had packed all the snow down. The lot was a bit slippery, but nobody got stuck.

I bring up all these anecdotes just to demonstrate how people can respond to calamity, especially if they have seen the calamities before. But as I brag a bit about how self-sufficient the local people are, I do notice when fossil fuel is involved. If the Green New Deal fanatics have their way, there will be no gas for the plows or for the generators, and the testing will become far more rigorous.

For this reason I was hoping for a mild winter. The milder the better. (If you don’t use much oil or propane or electricity, there is less of a chance you will run out.)

One of the mildest winters I personally recall was 1975-1976, when it seemed all the storms headed north to the west of New England and we were always in the warm sector, on the warm side of storms. I think there were records set for snowfall in Minnesota that year, for they were on the wrong side of all the storms, but that was their problem. Here, even up in Maine, where I lived back then, it was relatively snow free. Because, this year, all the storms were going up to our west at the start of this winter, I hoped we were in a pattern similar to what we saw back then.

This is mere memory on my part, and one problem with personal recall is that it tends to be a general impression, without much foundation on fact. When one recalls one must confess they neglected to save weather maps from the papers, or record temperatures day by day. And what I actually recall about 1975-1976 was how disappointed I was. I was young and wanted a wild and crazy winter, and thought such a winter would be more likely up north in Maine, but instead I labored through a winter which would have seemed mild even down in Massachusetts. So that is what I remember. However I do like those meteorologists who are far more specific, and have past maps on their fingertips.

One such weatherman is Joe Bastardi, who was forecasting a cold December, and, midst the slew of examples he gave, he happened to mention a cold December in 1975-1976.

Cold December? I prodded my memory, and realized there was evidence I wasn’t paying attention. Why? Likely I was writing the Great American Novel or some such thing. I was only jarred from my inward contemplation by the arrival of my nemesis for Christmas. (At that time my nemesis was a big brother.) As my brother and I practiced the high art of dysfunction I awoke to the fact early December had been so cold even the salt water had frozen. There was a big slab of sea-ice in the Harraseeket River in front of my parent’s abode.

The following will show you how different my memory is from that of a tried and true meteorologist:

I only recall that slab of sea-ice because my older brother was too lazy to row a rowboat around it. It was only fifty feet across but perhaps three football fields long. Therefore, after testing the ice with an oar, he got onto the ice, pulled the boat onto the ice, and then pushed the boat across. The ice was so thin, and so rotted by thaw, that it cracked under his feet, but he didn’t fall through because he supported his weight on the stern of the rowboat. As he reached the far side of the floe the ice completely disintegrated beneath his feet, and the boat wallowed down through the slushy ice, but he did a sort of push-up on the stern, with his feet above the water, and then swung his feet around and into the boat. A local lobster man, who had watched the spectacle, commented, “That fellow is off his f—– rocker,” likely because the lobster man knew the water was so cold it could all but paralyze a person plunging into it, and kill a man in five minutes.

I liked hearing my brother was “off his f—— rocker”, because we were intensely competitive at that point in our lives, and he often expressed the opinion that I was the one who was “off his f—— rocker.” I liked hearing the lobster man suggest it might not be me who was the nut. What does this have to do with meteorology? Absolutely nothing. But it does suggest December 1975 was cold.

Joe Bastardi had been going on about the cold December for a long time, literally since August, and I was amazed to see things develop in a way very much like what he had predicted. While the cold might be bad for the energy situation in the short term, I still had hopes it would give way to a warmer winter in the long run.

How can cold lead to warmth? Well, sometimes the stormy spell will climax with a gigantic outpouring of arctic air that leaves the arctic so depleted that no cold can follow, so what follows is a lovely winter thaw. But I was also aware there are different, particularly nasty patterns, which do manage to swiftly reload, and to hit southern lands with successive arctic blasts. I was aware of this because 1976-1977 was so unlike 1975-1976. What caused the difference?

Usually any southward movement of arctic air involves a dip in the jet-stream. (Back when I was young, meteorologists called this dip a “low pressure trof”. The fact meteorologists spelled “trough” incorrectly was proof they were practical Science majors, and not nit-wit English majors like myself. They would spell a word like it sounded, and dictionaries could be damned. Out of great respect for those vanished scientists I will spell trough, “trof”, for the rest of this post.)

Ordinarily low pressure is centered at at the Pole in the upper atmosphere, with higher pressures to the south. Winds swing around and around the Pole, west to east, and if those winds remain west to east the flow is called “zonal”. A zonal flow tends to trap the cold at high latitudes. However sometimes the west to east flow gets perturbed and wavy, and when a wave pokes north it is called a high pressure ridge and when it pokes south it called a low-pressure trof. But sometimes the trof gets so huge it actually moves the the center of the polar rotation south along with it. That is when newspapers scream about the “Polar Vortex” coming south, (without a clue what they are screaming about.)

These super-sized trofs involve storms and cold outbreaks which often are remembered in the record books, but involve such a derangement from the normal state of affairs that they are often followed by a period of dull weather. The polar vortex has to regrow back up where it belongs, and before it is regrown the jet stream circling the Pole lacks its ordinary vigor. The arctic has “shot its wad”, and has nothing left to send south. The south takes advantage, sending thaws north. Occasionally this can brew up a decent storm, when a vast area of snow-cover creates enough “home grown” cold, and that cold needs no reinforcements from the Pole, and is able to clash with the thaw in a wintry way. However such storms don’t tend to stress people as much; temperatures are just below freezing, and often they are bracketed by thaws. For the most part a mind numbing arctic outbreak involving the Polar Vortex is a reason to hope. One hopes that, if you just hang in there, you’ll see a prolonged thaw, and can eventually stand in the sun, and even stick your neck up from your scarf a little.

However the most severe winters don’t involve the Polar Vortex being uprooted and coming south. It may wobble, or drift to one side of the Pole, but it stays home. And from its home it directs successive pulses of arctic air down one channel, created by a trof which somehow gets locked in place, or else wobbles to and fro at roughly the same longitude. Down at the bottom of such trofs people at lower latitudes experience the worst winters of their lifetimes. The hoped-for thaw never comes. The cold never quits.

I found myself remembering such a winter when I chanced across a Seth Borenstein article titled, “December Serving Up Baked Alaska…”

I have been rolling my eyes over Seth’s Alarmist take on weather for over a decade. (Heck, it might even be two decades by now.) But, even though he tends to use information to leap to preposterous conclusions, he does tend to use actual facts as his springboard. In fact I tend to like his writing the way I once liked Robert Felix’s site Ice Age Now. At Robert’s site I could learn of cold waves and snowstorms no one else reported about, and in Seth’s articles I read about warm spells and thaws every Alarmist wants to report, but often Seth is the first.

However as he talked about warmth in Alaska it triggered my Way-back Machine.

The winter of 1976-77 was one of the coldest I can remember, on the east coast of the USA. That was back during the “Ice Age Scare”. And one thing I remember was that it was hot and very dry in California, and mild in western and central Alaska, because the jet stream looped far to the north, off the west coast. But then it turned sharply south, drawing a cross-polar-flow of bitter cold air from Siberia to Eastern Alaska and the Yukon, and then down the east side of the Canadians Rockies and southeast, spreading out across the USA clear down to Florida.

I remember Pacific storms would head north, missing drought-afflicted California, and then crash into the wall of arctic air, dwindling into a little ripple of low pressure that came down the boundary between Pacific and Arctic air formed by the Rockies. I’d watch these “Alberta Clippers” carefully, because usually they just delivered the next installment of arctic air, but some hooked north on the east coast of the USA and became gales and gave us snowstorms.

I was young and hot blooded and cold didn’t bother me, and the winter had all the misery I wanted (and had been so disappointed about not seeing the winter before). I had a wonderful time that winter because, despite twelve foot tides twice a day, Casco Bay froze so solidly that you could walk for miles and visit islands. I think the start of my interest in sea-ice was simply due to spending so much time upon it. Here is a picture of me upon the salt water in January 1977, writing on sea-ice (with my dog Zeus.) (Picture taken by my friend Joe Nichols.):

One lesson I learned from that winter was that warmth in western Alaska is by no means a sign of a warm winter overall. In fact it may be a sign that we in eastern USA need to be on guard. Hold onto your hats, and pile your firewood near the door. Have a back-up plan for when the power goes out, or the oil and/or propane isn’t delivered.

In actual fact our government’s hate of fossil fuels made me heap firewood even though I am reaching a point in my life when lugging firewood has lost its appeal. I’d much rather just sit back and turn up a thermostat. But without fossil fuels a thermostat will not work. And even during a mild winter, this far north, you either want the thermostat to work, or want to have a heap of firewood.

The question I have is whether this winter will be cold or not. I’d like a mild winter, for then I’d have firewood left over and wouldn’t have to buy as much next year. But a mild winter like 1975-1976 would put me on guard for a monster winter like 1976-1977.

But I just don’t see a sign the arctic will send the “Arctic Vortex” south and “shoot its wad.” Even the December chill seems very balanced with the Polar Vortex remaining at the Pole and having trofs rotate around it. Look at the map I’ve used in prior posts of what computer models see for the situation round Christmas.

Despite how deep the trofs are, the situation looks very balanced. If you include the cold in the mid Atlantic and mid Pacific, the trofs look like the five arms of a starfish. There is no sign (yet) that the Polar Vortex prefers one trof to another, and is going to surge down on one side of the Pole and “shoot its wad”. Rather the pattern looks sustainable. It looks able to reload and repeat. In which case the thaw I hope for would be less likely, and the worst-case-scenareo (for a world which foolishly has fossil fuels in short supply) seems more possible.

I confess my inability to state which option will come to pass. All I want to do is point out what we might look for. If the worst-case-scenario develops, knowing it is about to happen might be helpful and allow one to make preparations which seem appropriate, “in time” and not “too late”.

What I am going to be looking for is the “reload”, and a map that looks like the above map again in January, and again in February, and again in March, and even in April. That is a development I very much hope NOT to see.

Hope for the best but prepare for the worst.

P.S. The power is back on and I again can link to the web. One of the first things I did was to peruse the long term forecasts, and immediately noticed the snow forecast for Christmas weekend has been changed to rain. The storm looks likely to go west of us, which gets me remembering 1975-1976 again. This is good news if you like low energy bills in New England. The news is not so good in Minnesota, or even down in Texas. I can see temperatures as much as twenty degrees below normal forecast for Christmas, to our west.

It doesn’t seem fair that we get off Scot free, but the weather plays by its own set of rules.

FIVE FEET OF SNOW IN ARGENTINA

I like to post pictures like this when the heat and humidity is hard to take, up here in New Hampshire. A hurricane may come up the coast and clout us in two days, so I have a lot to hurry about making ready, and I need to stay cool despite the heat.

Full story about Argentina here:

https://www.iceagenow.info/patagonia-record-snowfall-sheep-buried-cows-buried-alive/#more-32538

LOCAL VIEW –The Last Brown Day–

Sometimes my focus is too much upon the oncoming, and I miss what I am surrounded by. I am like the driver of a car, wisely focusing on the road ahead but a bit oblivious of the view beside me. This is all well and good until you become oblivious of the person beside you.

I recently heard a story about an old man and old woman driving together in one of those old pick-up trucks with bench front seats. They sat so far apart that the old lady’s forehead was actually resting against the coolness of the passenger side window. In front of them was a battered pick-up truck of the same year and make, but in it was a young couple obviously very much in love; the young lady’s head was resting on the young man’s shoulder. They were driving so slowly the older couple’s truck caught up, and as they did the old lady looked forward and then she sat up, turned to her husband, and reproachfully said, “We used to drive like that. What happened to us?” The old man glanced at her with a wry smile and said, “I haven’t moved.”

As Thanksgiving approached this year I looked forward to two things that to a degree were in conflict; a reunion of family, including new babies and new partners, and the first big snowstorm of the year, which was a glorified warm front but promised to dump a foot of snow all at once.

As the storm approached there were certain things I needed to attend to, such as making sure my snow-blower was running correctly after sitting idle all summer, and getting salt and a snow shovel out of storage and putting them on the porch. I noted the snow-blower’s carburetor was a bit fouled, and a sheer-pin on one blade needed replacing, and this necessitated a drive to a hardware store in the next town for a gasoline additive and a sheer-pin. This resulted in a, shall we say, “discussion” with my wife, because it seemed I might miss an hour of our reunion. What was more important, a sheer-pin or our own children? In the end things worked out, for I slipped away from our reunion and was back an hour later in such a manner that the chattering group hardly noticed I was gone, but beforehand it seemed worse than it was. I was not at all looking forward with relish, and anticipated trouble.

It was at this point, when my brains were working themselves into a tizzy, that I decided I needed to stop and smell the roses, though there were no roses to sniff. I was too focused on the oncoming snow and oncoming reunion, and was missing what was in the present tense. And what was that? It was not snow or a reunion. It was the last brown day before the landscape vanished under a blanket of white, perhaps for months; perhaps until April.

It didn’t take any extra time. I just took the time, as I walked from one chore to the next, to scuff through the leaves, and enjoy the rustling.

With holidays I nearly missed the last,
Brown day. It wasn’t on my Christmas list:
“The last, brown day.” Snow will make it be the past;
The white comes fast; the landscape’s kissed
By wool on trees and roads, but if a drift
Must block my path I wish a pile of leaves
To rustle through. The way sounds shift
From crisp to sift, from leaves to snow, just grieves
My heart, for I know snow is here to stay,
And therefore isn’t like the last, brown day.
Seize the moment, before it slips away.
Seize upon the last, brown day; in a kicking way
Rustle through leaves. Make life be play.
Rejoice all through the last, brown day.

LOCAL VIEW –The Thaw Before The Thtorm–

I have just past my sixty-fifth birthday, with no hope of retirement, and what used to be a joke isn’t all that funny any more. The joke? “I took my retirement back when I was young and could enjoy it”. Ha ha ha. Not all that funny, when you have heard it for the ninety-seventh time,  but I’m getting to be one of those old men who gets repetitive.

It’s also not all that funny when most of my friends are down in Florida, retired. In the old fable of the Grasshopper and the Ant, they were the ants, and squandered their youth loyally sticking to a tedious job, as I was free as a bird, because I was the grasshopper, making music as they worked. Now they have pensions and I don’t. Serves me right, I suppose, but that doesn’t mean I’m all that happy about the situation. If you detect a trace of bitterness in my words, it is because poets are suppose to die young; the grasshopper is suppose to be cut down by the first frost. I don’t see many grasshoppers around these parts bouncing about through the deep snows, but me? The snow gets me hopping, because the alternative is not pretty.

The motto of New Hampshire is “Live Free Or Die”, but in the winter sometimes it is more like “Get your Walkways Snow-Free or Die”, especially if your business depends on clean walkways, and the State Inspector will close you down if every fire-escape isn’t shoveled. I am not prone to foul language, but I have shocked myself with some of the choice vocabulary escaping my lips as I deal with the drifts, even while getting texts on my cellphone from friends reclining by sunny pools in Florida. Can it be that I am becoming a jealous and bitter old coot?

Temperatures have recently been above normal, but that isn’t really helpful this far north. Seven degrees above normal is still below freezing, and it is more likely to snow in this area, with temperatures up around freezing.

Last weekend just enough cold air slid south between southerly warm-sectors to give us snow, even though the warm-sectors were attached to storms that passed well to our north, which usually gives us rain. Saturday the forecast was for 1-3 inches, but Sunday morning dawned upon a fall of 7 inches. Rather than Sunday being a scripturally-correct (as opposed to politically-correct) “day of rest”, I had to clear up the parking lot and paths of my workplace, to prepare for Monday morning. It is bad enough I don’t get to retire to Florida; I don’t even get to rest on Sundays. (Bring out the violins, please.)

To be honest, the workweek’s forecast was for such nice, mild temperatures that I did the minimum of snow-clearing. I cleared the front entrance and the parking lot, but left the mild temperatures to clear the fire escapes and back stairs. If the dreaded inspector had leapt from bed early on Monday Morning, (unlikely), he would seen a reason to “write me up”, as the seven inches had only wilted to four.

However I will  confess that a fall of sticky, wet snow does make running a Childcare easier, in terms of “curriculum”. This is especially true because certain youths do not seem to be born to sit in rows as children, to train them to sit in cubicles as adults, but rather are born to shift heavy weights outside.

However so strong was the thaw that, despite the production of seven large snowballs, within twenty-four hours the warmth (and destructive older children) left little sign of the efforts.

However it did allow me to send texts back to my pals lounging in Florida, which may be just a little bit mean. Or maybe not. After all, if they expect me to rejoice over how they are escaping winter, lounging by a pool, then they should rejoice over how the winter they thought they were escaping isn’t happening, and how I am not suffering, right? So today I sent them this:

But you will notice, though the thaw continues tomorrow, there is a suspicious-looking snowflake on Thursday. After all, this is February, and New Hampshire isn’t Florida.

The sad fact of the matter is that old-timers always fretted when there was an especially warm spell in the middle of the winter. In some ways their worry seemed comical, as if they were dour pessimists who couldn’t enjoy good weather, for “it will have to be paid for.” However they had a method behind their glowering madness. Some of the biggest storms in the history of the east of the USA were preceded by delightful weather. The legendary “Blizzard of 1888” gave New York City four feet of snow with gusts of hurricane force hurtling between the tall building and heaping drifts to second-story windows. Such a storm would shut down the New York City even with modern plows. But it occurred between March 11 and March 14. What was the situation in New York City on March 10?

March 10, 1888 was a lovely early-spring day in New York City, with temperatures well up into the fifties. People had no idea of what was coming.

I have lost the link I once kept, but one wonderful discovery I once made, while wandering the web, was the description of the Blizzard of 1888 from the eyes of a fisherman who fished south of Long Island. Back in those days sailors had no GPS, computer forecasts, or even engines. They were called sailors because they sailed.

This sailor had headed out in delightful early-spring weather. Then the storm “blew up”. The fisherman described the sky becoming as purple as concord grapes with amazing speed, with flashes of lightning. Then he described the amazing battle with sails and sheets in screaming wind and blinding snow he endured just to get to shore alive, without a single fish to sell. Many other sailors didn’t make it. People paid a high price for fish in 1888, especially the fishermen’s wives.

So I actually should be thankful to even make it to age sixty-five. One-hundred-thirty years ago not all that many made it. Still, I do manage to grouse a fair amount. There are days when sinking at sea seems like heaven to me, when I compare it dealing with a pack of small hellions at a Childcare.

And, in case you wonder, I have been at sea in a small boat in a big storm, and I do know the desperation involved. It is a hugely humbling experience, and little dignity is involved, for a roaring storm cares little about our mortal concept of “dignity”. Yet there is more dignity in that desperate situation than in being a sixty-five year old man dealing with a bunch of little whiny brats children experiencing challenges  to their sense of well-being and self-esteem.  Do modern children respect their elders? I think not.

Often I derive great joy from small children, but Lord Jesus didn’t say “derive great joy” from the little children. He said “suffer the little children”.

And at age sixty-five I confess there are days I roll my eyes to the sky and ask questions that are less than grateful. Is this the culmination of my life? To be a fucking babysitter childcare professional?

There is a story which likely isn’t true, but which makes many smile, involving a children’s-show radio personality called “Uncle Bob” or some such thing, who muttered at the end of a show, when he thought the microphone  was turned off and he was off the air, “That ought to keep the little bastards quiet for another week.” Even if the story is an urban myth, the fact it makes people chuckle (rather than look indignant) seems to suggest children are not all goodness and light, and are things we must “suffer”.

At age sixty-five I’d rather sit by a pool in Florida and study scripture. The fact I chose to take my retirement when I was young and could enjoy it seems like a bad choice to me now. However the choice of fisherman to go out fishing on March 10, 1888 likely seemed like a bad choice to them, on March 11. No matter how we chose to direct the course of our lives, we are bound to sail headlong into storms.

In New Hampshire this happens every cotton-picking year, and is called “winter”. Many retire here, but many don’t last long. Norman Rockwell be damned; pristine snowscapes get old after Christmas, and by February winter gets so old that they shortened the month to 28 days, just to speed up the progress to spring. As March arrives the last thing anyone wants is a huge storm.

However the future does not look tranquil to me. I had hopes that the so-called “arctic vortex” would keep the cold air trapped in a tight circle, whirling at the Pole, but instead that vortex moved south into Canada, and has been making the Canadian Archipelago so cold that even the Eskimos have been staying indoors.

Arctic chill at 85F below zero – So cold, Eskimos advised to stay inside!

My hope was that the cold would wobble back up to the Pole, where it belongs, but that would involve a positive NAO. Instead the exact opposite seems to be developing.

If the NOA crashes (and I am deeply hoping this forecast is utterly wrong) then the so-called “arctic vortex” becomes deranged, and in layman’s terms this means the cold doesn’t stay north where it belongs. Instead it comes south to bump into the nice, juicy air of our thaw, and all hell can break loose. 1888 can reoccur.

When I look north I can see the amazing cold sitting there up in Canada, in maps Dr Ryan Maue’s hard work makes available at the Weatherbell site.

The pink in the above map, up in Canada, represents the one temperature where Fahrenheit and Celsius actually agree, -40°. However I wonder to myself, “Is that normal, up there?” Fortunately Dr. Maue also has produced an “anomaly map”, which tells us if temperatures are above-normal or below-normal.

The second map shows that the temperatures are thirty-degrees-below-normal, even by Canadian standards. To have that air come south and mingle with air that is thirty-degrees-above-normal by the standards of Chicago seems unwise to me. It is like mixing gasoline with a fire.

But it hasn’t happened yet. It is an amazingly mild night for February in New Hampshire, with temperatures above 50°F (10°C). Tomorrow it might touch 70°F (21°C).

 

In the warm thaw before the storm I bask
My old bones, like a sailboat sliding
Through slack seas, and try not to glumly ask
What the clouds on high foretell, for deciding
The word on high speaks of a hurricane
Spoils the brief joy of a midwinter day
Which smells like a rose midst the jabbing pain
Of thorns. Roses are brief, but thorns stay
All year. I’ll take flowers when they come,
Well aware that soon enough my loose belt
Will need to be hitched. For a time I’ll strum
My harp; not drum my fingers. I have felt
Cruel sleet before, and know it is best
To face a fierce storm after getting some rest.

*******

P.S.

Thursday’s text to friends in Florida:

And a map to remember:

They call it an anal ysis? Hmm…

LOCAL VIEW –Another Boston Snowstorm? Or April Fools? (Updated Saturday Night)

It is difficult to describe how tantalizing spring can be, this far north. It can be a terrible tease. This year the flirt provoked us with an amazingly kind end to February, with even the ponds melting. I was thinking of fishing with the children at our Childcare on the first of March.

Yet at the end of March things had gone backwards.

If you zoom in on the picture you can see it was not merely humans who were fooled.

This is a particularly stupid sub-species of Canada Goose, which we have accidentally bred in our area by having water hazards at our golf courses. They are around two pounds heavier than the natural sort, that migrates up to Canada and down to Chesapeake Bay. This sub-species can’t be bothered to migrate far, and upsets people terribly by dying in droves when winters are particularly harsh, when they hang around warm outflows of power plants or sewage treatment plants, rather than flying south to look for open water. Then certain people feel compassion and feed them, while other people, who want them dead, watch and are irate.

Why should anyone want such beautiful geese dead? Well, they eat grass, lots and lots and lots of grass, (they have to eat a lot because grass has less protein than grain or fish), and this means they also produce lots and lots and lots of slimy green droppings. Golfers don’t like this, and people with lawns by the water don’t like it either. But it is illegal to blast them, out of season, and also they are stronger than they look; they can break your arm by beating their wings if you grab one.

In any case, this particular pair arrived on February 28, and cannot understand why the ice has been growing rather than shrinking. Are not the days getting longer, and the sun getting higher and stronger? (I’d show them my weather maps, but they might break my arm.)

I hear the crazy crying of flying geese
And look up through flocking flakes of snow,
And part of me yearns for the yearly release
From the shackles of cold, yet I know
All too well how the Northern Trickster flirts
Worse than the worst girl I knew back in school.

You want to plant seeds so badly it hurts
But if you attempt it you’ll look like a fool
So you wait, and you wait, and wait some more
Until you feel you are losing your mind.

The crazy geese cry in the sky and soar
As bitter flakes sting my weeping eyes blind.
Will Savior Spring ever cut cruel shackles loose
Or will I just wind up an old, silly goose?

One thing I try to remind myself is that I was born here, and am accustomed to the torment. I once worked as a landscaper for a very warmhearted old lady who was born in Virginia, and it drove her half mad not to plant flowers in March. One April, (1989), we had a spell of hot days at the start of the month, and I had to practically tie her down to keep her from planting tomatoes. I think she was on the verge of firing me, when the weather reverted to a bone-chilling rain that had some snow mixed in, followed by clearing and a sharp frost that would have killed tomatoes. I figure if that lady could take that spring,  I can take this one.

Despite the cold breezes the sun is so high that, when it has been out, it has made steady inroads on the nearly two feet of dense snow we got two weeks ago, and again patches of leaves and stone are peeking through on south-facing slopes. It is interesting how some kids gravitate to those places even on gray days.

.

Today the bright spring sun in blue skies made further inroads on the snow-pack, and I noticed daffodils poking up in the south-facing garden.

Yet the forecast is for them to be covered by a foot of snow and sleet by Saturday morning. It seemed impossible. The sun is as high as it is in early September, when most of the leaves are still green. Out of the wind it was warm on my face, and some of the kids got a touch of a sunburn, but then, in the afternoon, abruptly only the sky to the east was blue.

I figure I might as well document the event with updates, like I did the last storm. I still have the hope it may all change to rain. The evening radar only showed snow way up by the Great Lakes.

While the weather map shows the storm to the west has a core of summer heat, complete with thunderstorms and tornadoes, it is running up against a Canadian high pressure to our north, which has been pumped up and nudged south by a gale out in the Atlantic (right margin of map) which actually sucked what looked like a tropical storm into its guts. Therefore it will be a battle between winds coming down from Labrador and winds coming up from the Gulf of Mexico.

Today began with a frosty low of 26°, rose to 45° before the clouds moved in, and has now slumped back to freezing. (It is murder on weathermen to forecast whether precipitation will be rain or snow if temperatures are right at freezing.)  The barometer has crept up to 30.02, but is fairly steady.  See you in the morning.

UPDATE:  6:55 A.M. MARCH 31

Just before sunrise at 6:30 the entire landscape turned a shade of shocking pink, and then faded to an orange glow to the east.

The first, fat flakes began slowly falling at 6:45.

UPDATE: 10:08 AM 

Temperature 30° Barometer 30.01

All the work the sun has done to bare the ground is being undone by a steady fall of light sneet (halfway between sleet and snow.)

MORNING MAP AND RADAR  (Notice how as soon as the rain moved into New England, it turns to snow.) (Out west Denver’s getting snow as well.)

UPDATE:  2:25 PM

Temperature 32° Barometer 29,95  Moderate snow. Light northeast wind. Around an inch and a half of snow in the pasture, but the sun is so powerful it melts the roads even through the clouds. They are merely wet, with some slush under trees. As soon as the sun goes down the roads will worsen. (Rain made it up the coast to South Boston for a bit, but it looks like they’ve gone back to sleet now).

Joe D’Aleo has some interesting graphs on his blog at Weatherbell, produced by Dr. Ryan Maue. They show the change in temperature in the atmosphere for the next few days. Ground level is to the bottom and the future is to the right.  What is shows is warmer air moving in aloft tonight. What is interesting is that it is above freezing in Worcester, an hour south of here, which will likely bring freezing rain or ice pellets…

…yet an hour north of here in Concord the warm occlusion is below freezing as it passes over, which should keep the snow as snow.

As I am half-way between, what I do is flip a coin.

UPDATE: 8:00 P.M.

Temperature 28°, Barometer 29.88.  Changing to sleet. Roughly four inches.

It’s been the typical sort of chaotic day storms generate, with all sorts of extra little chores to do to be ready in case the storm shuts things down. (I have a superstition that a storm never shuts things down unless you forget to do these chores.)

The truck had a dead battery so I used the 1997 Volvo to haul a load of wood for the porch, in case the woodpile gets totally buried.

And got the snowblower all gassed up and its electric starter plugged in for the clean-up tomorrow morning.

And rushed around getting things done before the slush got too deep on the roads.

As the snow got deeper trucks began to bog down in the snow.

So we had to fight back against the sky.

But the enemy sent in reinforcements

So the wiser old women retreated indoors to play Bingo in the stables.

Meanwhile the goats complained it was too muddy in their hideout under the barn.

So they bashed a new entrance to the stables in the rear, and trashed the place

And then implored me not to turn them into goat burgers.

Nothing to be concerned about here, folks. Just your typical day on a hardscrabble farm.

EVENING MAPS AND RADAR

The maps show high pressure remaining stubborn over Maine, forcing the storm to redevelop on the coast of Virginia.

The radar shows the rain-snow line making no progress to the north, though sleet does seem to be mixing in more outside my front door.

9:30 PM  29.86  27°

SATURDAY MORNING UPDATE

6:00 AM Temperature 29° Barometer 29.68  Light snow; dust-like flakes — Windy

Dark purple daybreak. I’m glad it is a Saturday, and I don’t have to open the Childcare.

Looks like rain (likely drizzle) has crept up the coast to Boston…

…as the storm stalls, or only crawls. Looks like a dark day, for April.

10:00 Temperature 32° Barometer no longer falling 29.72.  Snow picking up again.

12:00 NOON  –Temperature 32°

EVENING UPDATE

Groan. What a royal pain cleaning up that snow was. It was something like glue mixed with cement, and the augers of my snowblower kept winding up like this:

It was five inches of wet snow atop two inches of drenched sleet, and packed to something close to ice with little effort, so where the plows passed by on the street a wall was raised that the snowblower quailed at, like a hamster trying to gnaw through granite. I was overjoyed to see my eldest son drive up with his big plow to clear the entrances for me. But some places he cannot go. For example the snow slides off the new barn’s snow-shedder roof…

…And packs this stuff a plastic snow shovel can’t dent….

…and makes we want to wait for a warm spell to just melt the stuff.  Unfortunately this door faces north, and won’t melt quickly, so I’ll have to use my pick ax tomorrow.

(This is why people charmed by New England move back south, after a couple of winters.)

Anyway, here’s an “after” picture, to compare with a “before” picture above.

The barometer is in no hurry to rise, at 29.84, with the temperature at 30° at 10:00 P.M. After 36 hours the snow finally faded away towards sunset, and Radar shows it moving away northeast.

The map shows the storm didn’t get as big as some do. So there’s something to be thankful for.

The forecast is for temperatures in the high 80’s by the end of the week. April Fools!

Actually that was 1989. Look at the first week:

I can dream, can’t I? (The reality is we have another storm coming Tuesday, hopefully rain, but with temperatures too close to freezing for comfort.) (Rain will keep me indoors and encourage me to do my taxes.) Currently the next storm is down in Texas.