Smokin Hot Love Biscuit serves our household as chief meteorological officer. He has NOAA, Ventusky, and FishWeather. He has alerts. We recently got a call at 3:00 AM about tornado warnings across northern Guilford county. I remarked that those possible tornadoes are four hours away and we haven’t lived there for three years. My feedback does not deter him. He compares forecasts and conducts overlays what may or may not happen in the next seventy-two hours. He hasn’t yet gone so far as to build a weather dashboard, install a special satellite, or conduct an analysis of year over year patterns. (That I know about.) Weather data is his jam.

His bend toward weather watching becomes heightened this time of year – hurricane season. Over morning coffee, he wants me to examine tiny tropical disturbance cells forming off the coast of Africa. “We live in North America,” I say, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, trying to focus on the swirling pattern on the screen. “Alert me when it gets to Miami.”

“That might be too late. These things can turn without warning.”

“Can I finish my coffee, or should we evacuate?”

SHLB ignores my humor and starts filling the downstairs bathtub as a reserve tank. I jokingly ask if he has the life jackets ready. “Good thinking,” he replies and adds them to his checklist under emergency flares.

When I grew up, we had, “America’s Original Old Fashioned Almanac Calendar for Gardeners, Farmers, and City Folk.” In its revered spot above the washing machine, it served the entire household. The regular days were in black script, with Sundays and holidays in red. The phases of the moon along with weather predictions mapped out with surprising precision what was going to happen in the coming year. (Almanac stats report 80% accuracy.) My parents used it for planting our garden and watching the phases of the moon. It was a resource, but since it was printed the previous year – real time had not yet been invented – we all lived in the 80/20 space. It’s good to reference the likelihood but clear-cut forecasting can really spoil the moment. Since there was always a chance that something might NOT happen, we could roll the dice with a gamble.

First published in 1792 as “Old Farmer’s Almanac,” the annual journal still touts itself as the provider of: “anecdotal weather prognostications, planting schedules, astronomical tables, astrological lore, recipes, anecdotes, and sundry pleasantries of rural interest.” (Sundry pleasantries may be the best two words I have encountered as of late.)

Back in the day, we used the Almanac as we used the newspaper and encyclopedia, as a source for knowledge, arriving at our own conclusions. My parents and grandparents watched patterns and could read the weather and smell the rain. Perhaps they were walking apps of sorts, relying on their senses to guide them.

I sometimes miss the world as it used to be.

Storm clouds were rolling in the other night as SHLB and I sat on the front porch, our phones inside. Sixth grade science told me that they were either stratus, cumulus, or nimbus. I can’t differentiate them, but I like the way those names roll off the tongue in a trio, like the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria. That’s probably why I remember them. The clouds were fat and heavy, ready to saturate the night. The thunder boomed offshore and the lightening streaked and danced, nature’s electric extravaganza.

Fergie doesn’t like storms, so we gave her a Zen Chew and rocked her. Our porch is covered and the cool breeze along with the proximity to my heartbeat settled her nervousness. After a bit she fell into the rhythmic snore of an old dog on a CBD trip. We’ve been together a long time, when she chases something in her sleep or takes up the whole bed or demands to sit at the table or snores on the porch, we yield the right of way. She has been a good and faithful companion.

When I was growing up, we had a dog named Skippy. She was already on the scene when I was born and when Mom would call the roll of us five kids, Skippy came in fifth, me sixth. I remember Skippy as being a black and white border collie, but my brother swears she was Lassie’s identical twin. (He even sent me a follow-up text to reiterate that she was caramel and white – no black.) Since I’m writing this, Skippy was a black and white border collie. She had a terrible fear of thunderstorms and would try her best to get into the house at the first rumbling of a dark sky. She had shelters to get under and a doghouse, but she wanted inside with us. Bad.

One time she even got under the doormat to try to hide out and dart into our family room stealth-like to safety. My parents didn’t allow pets in the house, and I worried about Skippy being scared in storms. I can still see her some fifty years later. If I could go back and love on every pet I have ever lost, I would start with Skippy. I bet she would really dig a couple Zen Chews and a good rocking.

Unlike Skippy and Fergie, I love storms. My farm upbringing offered many lessons in the meaning of needing and getting (or not getting) rain. I’ve never minded late evening showers or gutter rushing downpours. Even with all the speculating on the weather, the fancy weather apps, phone alerts, we can only cope with what happens. There isn’t any way to control it. Rain helps me sit still – surrendering my normal perpetual motion for something quieter and wonder filled. SHLB spent much of his childhood in Scotland and the climate meant that he learned to play outside in the rain. Perhaps this is part of why we work, our ability to weather storms – predicted or not.

“I like that smell,” I said.

“My Grandpa always said, ‘Let it rain, Johnny man. Let it rain,’” SHLB replied.

And it did. The Almanac said it would be a dry spring but sometimes all you need is twenty percent.